


Our Choices Seal Our Fate

by karevsprincess



Series: Broken Crown [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gendry is a Baratheon, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, POV Multiple, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Season/Series 07, Post-War for the Dawn, Pregnancy, War, Weddings, not season eight compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 130,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karevsprincess/pseuds/karevsprincess
Summary: With the Night King defeated and the Mad Queen dead, it seems like Westeros is at peace at last. But when a troubling piece of news reaches Winterfell, it’s time to go to war again and the futures of our heroes - and the Seven Kingdoms - are suddenly up in the air. The War for the Dawn is over, but the War for the Iron Throne has just begun.





	1. The Mad Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the heroes face the Army of the Dead, Cersei plans her own war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone! I'm excited to start this sequel, and there are lots of moments ahead that I am dying to write. Right now I have this outlined around 15 chapters, but that's susceptible to change. I will definitely be posting past when the show comes back on, and just know I'm not changing anything in my outline regardless if the show does the same thing or not. I actually included some storylines and characters I don't think season eight is going to include, and I want to make reference to some book plotlines the show skipped over. 
> 
> To clarify, this first chapter is a prologue and it takes place at the same the Battle of Winterfell was being fought in "Consign Me Not To Darkness". Next chapter will skip ahead to one month after where the last story ended. Enjoy!

**PROLOGUE**

**CERSEI**

She was having the dream again.

She was sitting on the Iron Throne, surrounded by her children, all of them alive and perfect. Then, one by one, they all began to melt away. Joffrey’s face turned purple as he sputtered and choked. A drop of blood fell from Myrcella’s nose, followed by another and another and another. Tommen’s face became distorted and bloodied, wrecked from where he had hit the ground…

She screamed for them but her cries went unanswered. “Joffrey! Myrcella! Tommen! Come back!” And yet still she was alone. She fell to her knees on the throne room floor, wanting to weep for her lost children, but then she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She looked up, hoping to see her children returning to her, only to see her brother.

Tyrion’s scarred face loomed over her and he smiled twistedly. “A day will come when you think you are safe,” He said to her. “And suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.” His hands wrapped around her throat and she tried to fight him off, but for some reason her body could not move. All she could do was stare into Tyrion’s eyes as she choked and struggled for breath, dying at the hands of her little brother just as Maggy the Frog had once told her she would…

Cersei woke with a start. _A dream, just a dream._ She reminded herself. A hand fell to her belly, still swollen with life, and she reminded herself that she was not alone. She still had one child, and that was proof enough to her that Maggy’s prophecy was wrong. The woods witch had said she would only have three children, and if she was wrong about that, then she was probably wrong about the _valonqar_ too. There was no need to fear.

So why was it that her little brother’s face still haunted her dreams?

She realized that there was a constant rapping at the door, likely what had awoken her from slumber. Cersei climbed out of her massive bed in the royal apartments and walked to the door, opening it slightly. One of her maidservants was standing outside, looking concerned. “Your Grace, are you all right?” She asked. “I’ve been knocking for five minutes.”

“I’m fine.” Cersei snapped. “What is it that you want? I told you I was not to be disturbed.”

The maidservant looked down at her feet, unable to meet Cersei’s eyes. “Your Grace, it is nearly ten o’clock. Lord Symun Fossoway arrived late last night from Cider Hall, and he wants to speak with you.”

Cersei nodded. “Very well. You can send him in.”

“Right away, my queen.”

Without another word, Cersei shut the door and wrapped herself in a robe, rubbing both hands over her massive dome of a belly. The babe kicked inside her. At seven months pregnant, she was so large that she could not see her feet and her ankles had swollen up to twice their normal size, so much she could barely walk some days. Recently she’d even begun swelling in her face and hands, but it was nothing she couldn’t endure. She sat herself down at the table to wait for Symun Fossoway and silently yearned for a glass of wine, though she knew that was not possible given her condition.

She still had not decided what to name the child. Qyburn said he thought it was to be a boy, a prince for House Lannister, but a small part of Cersei hoped for a girl, as pretty and kind as her Myrcella had been. She’d named three children before – Robert had not bothered to contribute, and Jaime certainly had not had a say – but this time was proving to be more difficult. If it was a boy, she could name him for one of the Kings of the Rock, as she’d done with her first two sons. Joffrey had been named for King Joffrey Lannister, born Joffrey Lydden, who became King of the Rock after his father-in-law Gerold III Lannister died without a male heir. Tommen had been named for two kings: Tommen I Lannister brought Fair Isle into the kingdom when he married a Farman princess, while Tommen II Lannister went on an expedition to Old Valyria to find wealth and magic only to disappear without a trace of him or his golden fleet. She’d found Myrcella’s name in some genealogy book or other and taken a shine to it immediately.

Cersei ran through the old Kings of the Rock in her head. _Loreon, Tybalt, Lancel, Cerion, Norwin, Tywell…_ She certainly could not name it ‘Tyrion’. She knew what she would name a girl this time. _Joanna, for my mother that lecherous little imp killed._ Joanna Lannister had been smart and beautiful and kind, and she’d been taken from her. But this child would not be taken from her, not even over her dead body. _Perhaps I should call it ‘Tywin’ if it is truly a boy._ Yes, Cersei silently decided, she liked that. _Look at me now, Father!_ She wanted to shout. _I’m the Queen, Father, I’ve won the game of thrones. The son you adored and the son you reviled, they both failed you, but I’m here. I’m the last Lannister, Father! I’m your legacy…_

She was startled from her thoughts by the sound of the door opening and Symun Fossoway appeared before her. “Your Grace,” The Lord of Cider Hall said, before descending into a stiff bow.

 _He is a truly ugly man._ Cersei thought to herself. Though only in his late forties, Lord Symun had already lost most of his hair and his teeth were yellow and rotted. Even from across the room she could smell him and it made Cersei want to vomit. Last she heard Lord Symun was supposed to marry the late Lord Tarly’s pretty maiden daughter, and Cersei almost felt sorry for the girl who should be so unlucky as to wed Symun Fossoway. She knew what it was like to be sold in marriage by your father, to a man who disgusted you…

On the outside, she forced a smile. “Sit, Lord Symun. I’d like a word with you.” The man sat across from her and Cersei bit on the inside of her lip to prevent herself from barfing. She reached across to the bar cart and poured a large cup of wine to the brim, then pushed it across the table. “Drink.”

Lord Symun looked at her warily. “Your Grace, I do not partake – ”

Cersei cut him off. “ _Drink_.” She repeated, more firmly this time. She smiled insincerely and rubbed her huge belly. “You must for me, as I am afraid I cannot enjoy this lovely Arbor gold in my current condition…”

“Yes,” Lord Symun said, his beady eyes flitting to her stomach as he took a long, reluctant sip. “My sincerest congratulations. And who, may I ask, is the lucky father-to-be?”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. She knew it was not a well-intentioned inquiry. _The lioness does not concern herself with the opinions of the sheep._ She reminded herself. “There is no one. Just me…but that is all we need.” She said, her voice as smooth as honey – and laced with poison underneath. “My lord, I did not bring you here today to discuss such… _womanly_ issues as childbearing. I was bereaved to hear of the passing of your most esteemed commander, Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.”

A grave look overcame Lord Symun’s face. “Yes indeed, Your Grace, it is very tragic. Lord Randyll was the strongest, most intelligent, and most generous lord I ever had the privilege to serve under in battle. He and his son both were slaughtered by the Dragon Queen.”

“She is no queen,” Cersei interjected. “I am _the_ Queen.”

“Of course, Your Grace. It is a shame about Lord Tarly. He was to be my father-in-law, as I’m promised to his daughter Lady Talla. A fine young maid she is, and all for me. Perhaps once we are wed I will put a son in her we can name for Lord Randyll…” Lord Symun drained the rest of his glass and Cersei poured him another.

 _A stupid, ugly sot, that’s all he is._ Cersei thought. _That’s what all men are. They hurt you or don’t listen to you or cheat on you or betray you._ But she needed this particular stupid, ugly sot if she wanted to keep her throne. “This is quite a dilemma we’re facing, Lord Symun.” She said. “First House Tyrell went extinct because of that… _unfortunate_ accident in the Sept of Baelor. Now House Tarly has been effectively wiped from the world because of this Dragon Bitch and those beasts she calls children, save for your future wife of course…”

“Lord Randyll did have another son, Your Grace. Lord Samwell Tarly, but he took the black several years ago.”

“Yes, well,” Cersei said with a forced smile. “Men in the Night’s Watch are sworn to have no lands or titles. Though some men do not take those vows as seriously as others – like that bastard Jon Snow, who now styles himself King in the North.”

Lord Symun nodded. “It is a grievous offense to betray one’s vows, Your Grace. The Dragon Queen and the Bastard King have surely forsaken the gods with their amorality and selfishness. Even the Mother Above can only forgive so much.”

“I never took you for a godly man, Lord Symun.” Cersei said, voice dripping with acidity. “Now, let’s waste no more talk on the Dragon Bitch and her bastard. I’ve brought you here to make you an offer. House Fossoway was one of the principal bannerman of House Tyrell, and a loyal ally of House Tarly who fought bravely at the Battle of the Goldroad. Many of your brothers and cousins died for House Lannister that day, my lord, and I feel I am in your debt. I know I can trust you, Lord Symun, as I’ve seen you to be honorable and true.”

Lord Symun Fossoway had now finished his second cup of wine and it did little to alleviate the horrible stench of his breath. Cersei thought he was less of an apple, and more of an onion. “You have?”

“Yes, I have. Which is why, once this war is over and my throne secure, I intend to bestow Highgarden upon you and your Tarly bride. Should you accept, I dub you Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord Paramount of the Mander, and Warden of the South – in exchange for your loyalty and your men on the field of battle, of course.”

Lord Redwyne had been kin to the Queen of Thorns and could not be trusted. The Hightowers had ties in marriage to the Tyrells as well. The Florents had served Stannis Baratheon and would never agree to come over to her side. Lady Oakheart was old and delicate and did not have enough soldiers to tempt Cersei. Lord Rowan had died at the second Field of Fire and left behind only a daughter. The Fossoways were her best bet – they had enough money and enough men between both the red-apple branch led by Lord Symun, and the green-apple branch led by Ser Tanton Fossoway, his distant cousin. _If I can maintain my hold on the Reach,_ she thought with glee. _Then my throne will be secure._

“You honor me, Your Grace.” Lord Symun said, bowing his head. “I will serve you as bravely and faithfully as Lord Randyll did. I swear it on my life.”

Cersei smiled, showing her teeth. “Thank you, my lord. Please, take that bottle of Arbor gold if you wish – it is my gift to you.”

Lord Symun left and Qyburn came in instead, shutting the door behind him and pulling out the chair next to her. “Let me take a look at your feet, Your Grace.”

Cersei rolled her eyes but relented, allowing Qyburn to take one of them into his lap so he could examine her swollen ankles. “It is quite all right, really. Your feet swell when you are with child, it’s normal.”

“Yes, but yours are _very_ swollen, Your Grace.” Qyburn said, prodding at the skin. “You have excess fluid in your hands and feet. Perhaps I should leech you.”

“If you must.” Cersei pulled her foot away and rose from her chair before Qyburn could say anything more, moving towards her wardrobe to pick out the dress she would wear today. “Enough worrying about my health. What is that Dothraki whore up to now? Tell me what songs your little birds have sung.”

“Well,” Qyburn said with a sigh. “I’ve heard rumors from the North. Apparently Jon Snow, the King in the North, has taken Daenerys Targaryen to wife, uniting Houses Stark and Targaryen in a marriage alliance. I’ve heard that she is also carrying his child.”

Cersei turned to look at Qyburn, a hand immediately moving to her stomach. “My child is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Even _if_ Daenerys Targaryen is really pregnant, it means nothing – her child will be born of a bastard father and a whore mother, what right will it have to anything?”

“There is…another thing.” She raised an eyebrow at Qyburn, waiting for him to continue, and his face was grave. “I’ve heard whispers that Jon Snow is not really a bastard after all. He is the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Cersei stared at him for a long second, and then she laughed. “Is this some kind of joke?”  

She must have looked angry, because Qyburn’s face paled. “Your Grace, I would not trouble you with such rumors if I did not fear they may be true. Multiple sources have told me that Jon Snow is Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son, born after they secretly wed during Robert’s Rebellion. He is no longer calling himself King in the North, but King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

In that instant, Cersei Lannister suddenly hated dead Lyanna Stark more than she’d ever hated anyone. _What harm could Lyanna Stark’s ghost do to any of us?_ She had told Robert once. Evidently, it could do a lot of harm. “It still doesn’t matter.” She told Qyburn. “The Targaryens lost their right to the Iron Throne when Robert took it by right of conquest. I was Robert’s wife, and now the Throne belongs to me. They can try to take it from me, but they’ll fail. Even if they manage to survive their fight with these White Walkers – which I doubt they will – I have the forces of the Reach behind me, as well as the Ironborn ships Euron Greyjoy left behind before he died. And I think I could get the Stormlands behind me as well – I was Robert’s queen.”

“Perhaps, Your Grace.” Qyburn said. “Though I should tell you that Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen claim they have Robert’s bastard son among their numbers. What if they try to legitimize him and rally the Stormlanders to their cause? His name is – ”

A son of Robert’s body that still lived and breathed – Cersei’s heart filled with vitriol. “I don’t care what his name is.” She cut Qyburn off. “This boy is probably a pretender, claiming to be Robert’s seed because he wants glory and fortune. All of Robert’s bastards are dead and buried. Joffrey saw to that.”

“I understand Your Grace, but what if one got away?”

 _Even so,_ Cersei wanted to say. _I’ll see to it that he does not survive for much longer._ “He would still be a bastard, and if he were legitimized by a false king and a false queen, their orders are not valid. And why should the Stormlanders rally behind a bastard boy when I can offer them much more? Wealth, power, titles, and the protection of the Iron Throne.”

Qyburn nodded. “Yes, Your Grace, even if the boy is truly Robert’s son he will have a difficult time getting the Stormlanders to follow him. Regardless you’ll have to get to them first, and the Stormlanders will need a new Lord Paramount. Who will you name to the position?”

She thought about it for a moment. “The Trants. They were one of the principal bannerman of House Baratheon, and always remained loyal to me and my sons, Robert’s lawful heirs. They’ll rally the other storm lords to my cause.”

“The Trants are an old and noble house,” Qyburn agreed. “That is a fine choice, Your Grace. If we can rally the Reach and the Stormlands, then we will have strong numbers. We already have the Golden Company and half the Iron Fleet. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen outnumber us, but this war against the White Walkers will surely decimate their forces.”

“And we will beat them.” Cersei added on with glee. “Drive them all back into the ground where they belong…” The image in her head of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen’s heads on spikes gave her a sick sense of satisfaction. Perhaps she would put the Baratheon bastard up there with them – if he was truly Robert’s after all, she did not want him walking the earth when he may try to claim her Throne. And any child that may grow up to be like Robert was better off dead. “I have an idea, Qyburn.” She said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “To get rid of these pretenders sooner rather than later. It will require a bit of money, but it will remove the threat once and for all…”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?”

Cersei smiled. “You’ll see…” Once she had wanted to kill Tyrion first. Now though, she thought it might be best to save him for last. _When I win this war, I will show him the corpses of the false rulers he served._ She thought. _I’ll make him watch as the maggots devour their flesh, as their skin turns to rot. Perhaps I’ll take his pretty little wife Sansa Stark, who conspired in his treasons, and I’ll make him watch as the Mountain ensures she’s not so pretty anymore. Jaime too – I’ll rip the skin from the bones of that hideous Tarth whore. I knew when I saw her at Joffrey’s wedding she loved him, and now I’ll show him what happens to those he chooses over me. I’ll make both my brothers watch as everything they love is taken away, and then I’ll kill them both last. Once they have truly learned what suffering is…_

But her fantasies of revenge were interrupted when a sharp pain shot across her abdomen. It was enough to make her double over. “Your Grace?” Qyburn said, rushing to her side.

“It’s nothing – ” She began to insist, but then pain seized hold of her again, so much she could barely speak. She suddenly realized with terror what this pain was. But it had never begun this hard and this fast the three times before, and she was still two months early…“It’s too soon.” She gasped breathlessly, barely able to speak.

“Your Grace,” Qyburn said, kneeling before her. “You’re in labor. Come, lie down, I have some medicine that may stop it…” As soon as she tried to stand up, there was a gush, followed by wetness. Cersei looked down to see a puddle of blood and water had formed on the floor.

That was when she knew there was no stopping it.

The next moments passed in a blur of pain and fury, and though they felt like hours they could’ve been mere minutes for all she knew. Qyburn helped her back onto the bed and then left to fetch a midwife. Cersei buried her face into the mattress and screamed as pain took over her. She screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was gone, but the pain did not go away: it only worsened.

Suddenly she ached for Jaime. The first three times, he’d been here with her. He’d been so good to her while she labored, so gentle and kind. She could remember how he’d held her hand and wiped the sweat from her brow, mumbling words of encouragement. She whimpered involuntarily at the thought. _Jaime, Jaime, why did you leave me? I’m sorry, I need you…Jaime please come back…_

In the break between contractions, she sat up and tried to breathe. _No,_ Cersei silently reminded herself. _You don’t need him. He is a fool, a traitor, you don’t need his love…you are stronger on your own…_ Yet still, when the next pain came, she couldn’t help but wish there was a hand to hold. Her hands gripped the edge of the mattress as she screamed, but it was not the same.

Qyburn returned with a team of midwives. It felt like he had been gone for years. “How far apart are the contractions now, Your Grace?” Cersei was seized with pain again before she could answer.

“It seems to be about two minutes now, I think.” Someone said. Cersei was too blinded by discomfort to tell who. “There’s nothing we can do to stop it. We have to deliver her.”

“No,” She barked out between clenched teeth. “No, it’s too soon…” She’d birthed Tommen early, but he had only been three weeks premature, not two moonturns.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” One of the women said. “But you’re going to have this baby. On your next pain, I need you to push.”

Cersei tried to stubbornly clamp her legs shut, but one of the midwives forced them back open. She let out a string of curse words. “I’ll have your head for this! Stop it now or I swear I’ll – ” Pain cut off her protests.

The whole world seemed to be spinning wildly now and red tinged her vision. When the woman looking between her legs lifted her hands, they were suddenly covered in red. It was all Cersei could see. “She’s losing too much blood…I think the placenta may have detached…”

She pushed and screamed, pushed and screamed, over and over for what felt like hours. Her vision had gone blurry and Cersei could feel her hair plastered to her forehead from sweat, yet at the same time she felt cold.

Through the hazy fog she felt one of the midwives reach inside her. She pulled out a small, blood-covered mound, a perfectly still little body. The room was deathly silent, no telltale cry that indicated life…

 _Why isn’t it crying?_ She wanted to ask, but Cersei could not breathe let alone speak, her mouth tasting hot and metallic. There was not a doubt in her mind that she was dying.

Qyburn’s face looming over her was the last thing she saw. “Don’t worry, Your Grace…you're going to be all right…”

Then, there was only blackness.  


	2. One Month Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys plan for the future; Arya takes on her new position; Davos goes from a student to a teacher; a special day is interrupted by news from the capital.

**JON**

He took the steps two at a time on the way up and burst into the bedchamber without knocking. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jon had expected an emergency when he came upstairs. _Her Grace needs you as soon as possible._ Missandei had told him. _It’s about the babies._ Immediately Jon had fled his breakfast meeting with Gawen Glover and Larence Hornwood, worried that Daenerys would be hurt or bleeding when he got to her. But when he burst into the room, Dany was neither hurt nor bleeding, still in her dressing gown with Ghost sprawled out in front of the fire. His wife was sitting calmly at her bureau and brushing her hair, and she placed the brush down when she saw him. “I’ve got it.” Daenerys said, her eyes lit up with glee. “Jaehaerys.”

Jon stared at her. “What?”

“Jaehaerys,” Daenerys repeated. “For our son’s name. What do you think?”

For a long moment, Jon could only stare at her and not speak, still catching his breath from his run up the stairs. “But…Missandei said you needed me at once. I thought you were hurt, or having a miscarriage, and you just…you just wanted to talk about baby names?”

Daenerys laughed lightly. “I’m sorry Missandei gave you such a fright, my love. But the names of the future prince and princess of Westeros are important, are they not? We only have about six more months to decide, possibly less if the babies come early…”

Jon sighed and, exhausted, collapsed down onto the bed. Ghost got up and jumped to him, lying down next to Jon and burrowing against the warmth of his body. Jon weakly scratched the direwolf behind the ears. “I suppose,” He told Daenerys. “Jaehaerys is fine, if that’s what you want.”

A moment later Daenerys came to rest on the other side of him, lying down on her side so she could look at him. She folded a hand over the slight swell of her belly. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm than that.”

“It’s fine Daenerys, really. Names do not matter to me as much as they do to you. As long as they’re healthy, I don’t care what they’re called.”

His wife stared at him for a long moment, her lips pursed in a way that let him know she was not happy with that indifferent answer. “So you don’t like Jaehaerys – ”

“ – I said Jaehaerys is perfectly fine – ”

“ – yes, well, I was hoping you’d think the name of your future child was more than fine. I want you to like it.” Daenerys said. “Well then, if you could name a son anything you wanted, what would you choose? And don’t say you don’t care, because I really would like your opinion.”

Jon was about to insist again that it didn’t matter, but Daenerys was looking at him expectantly with her head propped up on her arm. He knew his strong-willed wife would not end this conversation until he gave her a direct answer. In truth, Jon had never thought much about what he would name a child – until recently, he’d never expected to have any. But there was one time he’d thought about it, after Stannis Baratheon offered to legitimize him as a Stark, and he feared Daenerys would not like his answer. “Robb.” Jon said. “After my brother.”

Daenerys hmphed and sat up, getting off the bed and walking over to her wardrobe. Jon sat up too and watched as she flicked through her dresses. “It’s a nice sentiment,” She said, not looking at him. “I know your brother was dear to you. But it’s not a very Targaryen name, is it?”

“Well, my name is not very Targaryen either.” Jon insisted. “And didn’t Aegon the Unlikely name one of his sons Duncan? I don’t see the problem.”

Daenerys was silent at first, pulling a black gown out of the wardrobe and holding it up in front of the mirror. She pirouetted and examined her reflection in silent thought, before turning to look at Jon again. “I understand, but…” She trailed off. “Your brother was named after Robert Baratheon. The man who usurped _our_ family.”

Ah, so that explained her hesitation. “Yes, but we wouldn’t be naming our son after Robert Baratheon. We’d be naming him after my brother, whom I loved…”

“I understand, but shouldn’t the next king have a king’s name?”

“Robb was a king.” Jon said. “And besides – he may not be the next king. His sister could be born first.”

Daenerys was in the middle of changing when she spun around to look at him, her dress half pulled up over her chest. “You would be okay with a daughter inheriting before a son?” She seemed genuinely surprised by his sentiment.

Jon shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Being male doesn’t make you more fit to lead. If our daughter is anything like her mother, I think she would be more than capable.” He’d seen the kind of queen that Daenerys was, and the kind of lady that Sansa was becoming. Society liked to spew bullshit about female rulers, but women could be just as strong as men were, and Jon Snow had met plenty of strong women in his day. He would not tell his future daughter that she was less worthy just because she was a girl.

Daenerys smiled, but she still looked hesitant. “The lords may not like that.”

“Well, they need to get with the times.”

Daenerys was silent for a moment, pulling her dress up and slipping her arms into the sleeves. “I’ll think about the name,” She finally said. “I’m not making any promises, but I’ll… _consider_ Robb as an option.”

Jon smiled. “That’s all I ask. And you can name our daughter after whatever great Targaryen queen you want.”

Her violet eyes lit up and she crossed the room to kiss him on the lips. “Now husband, can you come help me with these laces?”

After Daenerys had dressed, she and Jon walked back downstairs hand in hand. In the courtyard there was a flurry of activity. Tormund was standing with two red-haired girls, one about Sansa’s age and the other slightly older. The older one was tall, almost as tall as Tormund, and had a lithe, graceful figure. Her face was covered in freckles and there was a large gap between her two front teeth. The younger one was shorter and stouter, with broad shoulders and a crooked nose, but strong-looking. “For fuck’s sake Munda!” The older girl was complaining. “Are you a child? If you keep swinging your spear like that you’ll knock an eye out!”

“Aye,” The younger girl – Munda – retorted. “And perhaps it will be your eye if you don’t watch your fat mouth Manda – ”

Manda reached for the hand axe attached to her waist and the girls looked like they were about to come to blows, but Tormund seemed unconcerned, as if he’d seen this all before. He looked up and spotted Jon and Daenerys approaching. “Ahh, Jon Snow!” Immediately the two girls dropped their weapons and turned. Jon could see their matching pairs of blue eyes examining him critically, and Tormund clamped each of them on the shoulders. “Allow me to introduce my daughters, Manda and Munda. Girls, this is Jon Snow and his wife Daenerys Targaryen.”

The two girls looked like Tormund, so it was not hard to see the familial resemblance. “Your father has told me all about you.” Jon told them. “It is a pleasure to meet you both. Tormund has been a good friend to us.” 

Manda looked him up and down, then turned to her father. “He is littler than I expected. I know you said he was small Father, but...”

“Aye,” Munda said. “But pretty. Too bad he’s married.” Manda narrowed her eyes and reluctantly nodded in agreement. Jon couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with how they were talking about him like he wasn’t there, but he saw that Daenerys was snickering.

The courtyard was also filled with men dressed in black cloaks and furs, and Jon spotted a familiar face bobbing through the throng. “Edd!”

The Lord Commander turned his head, and a rare, tentative smile came to Dolorous Edd’s face as he spotted his old friend. “Jon.” The two men made their way to each other and embraced.

“It is so good to see you.” Jon said. “I worried about you all up there.”

Edd shrugged. “Yes well, we were in the middle of fending off a wight attack at Castle Black when suddenly all of them disappeared at once. I figured you had something to do with that?”

“Aye.”

Edd snorted out a laugh. “You killed the fucking Night King. I see you’re as much of an overachiever as always, Snow. Or should I say Your Grace?”

Jon smiled. “You’re my friend, Edd. I’d much rather you just call me Jon.”

“That’s too bad. I was going to insist that you call me Lord Commander.”

Daenerys appeared by his side and threaded her arm through his. “You must be Dolorous Edd.” She said to his friend. “My husband said you were one of the only people in the Seven Kingdoms who was more dour than him.”

Edd laughed. “Aye, but I don’t look half as good brooding.”

“Edd, allow me to introduce my wife, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. Daenerys, this is my old friend Eddison Tollett, 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”  

Daenerys extended her hands and Edd kissed the backs of them. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

“And you as well.” Daenerys replied. “Any friend of Jon’s is a friend of mine.”

Sam came out of Winterfell then, and he smiled when he saw Edd. “Dolorous Edd, is that really you?”

“Sam the Slayer!” The two old friends laughed and hugged. “I hear you are to be Lord of Highgarden now.” Edd remarked.

Sam blushed. “Oh that? It’s nothing.”

“Lord Tarly is far too humble.” Daenerys said. “We would not be standing here today if not for his contributions. Even a prize as great as Highgarden cannot properly reward him for his efforts.”

“Speaking of rewards,” Jon interjected. “There’s something we want to talk to you about Edd: there is to be no more Night’s Watch.”

His friend’s face fell and confusion crossed his eyes. “Oh. Well, I suppose there are no White Walkers that need defeating anymore. And you’ve let the Wildlings south of the Wall…but what is to become of all of us? Black cells?”

“Not at all. All the men of the Night’s Watch fought bravely and helped defend the realm against the Long Night. Everyone will be offered a choice. They can return to their homes, go any place in the world they wish – but if there is nowhere for them to go, they are welcome to join us. Become soldiers, servants, stewards, messengers…we would welcome them all.”

“That is kind of you. But Jon, these men may be our brothers, but some of them are rapers, murderers, thieves. They were supposed to pay with their lives.”

“Petty theft should not be punished so strongly. The justice system in Westeros is in disarray. We need a system in place in which offenders can atone for their past mistakes and then be reintegrated into society.”

Edd hesitated. “It is a good plan. What do you suggest?”

“Criminals shall still be sent to Castle Black, but they will take no vows for life.” Daenerys explained. “There the men shall complete work for the good of the realm, reflect on their crimes, and receive counsel to get to the heart of their problems. Female criminals shall go to the Shadow Tower. When they are determined fit to reenter society, they shall.”

“And if they are never fit?” 

Jon shrugged. “Then they shall remain there until they die. But at least this way they were given a chance.”

“Obviously you are free to go wherever you want, Edd.” Daenerys said to him. “But Jon and I were hoping that we could see a lot more of you. We are planning to march south soon to take King’s Landing – when we do, we’ll need a master-at-arms at the Red Keep.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you interested?”

“You are kind to me, Your Grace. It would be my pleasure.” Edd turned to Sam again, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Seems you’re not getting rid of me yet, Slayer. Now, how are Gilly and Little Sam? I hear you’re to be a married man soon, you poor oaf…”

His two former Night’s Watch brothers walking on ahead, Jon ordered for the other men to be placed in the great hall for the night, and to be given food and drink. Edd was to have one of the spare rooms in the castle made up for him. The steward nodded and went off to follow his orders.

Daenerys threaded her arm through Jon’s as they walked inside, a sudden twinkle in her eyes. “I think I’ve found the name.” She whispered. “What about Aegon?”

Jon rolled his eyes and kissed her cheek. “I love you Dany, but I am not under any circumstances letting you name our son Aegon.”

* * *

**ARYA**

She found the girl stringing laundry up on a clothesline. She was blonde, neither tall nor thin, short nor fat. Average-looking, you could say. Arya watched from afar as her slender hands hung up stockings and pinafores, tunics and smallclothes. She was completely oblivious.

“Excuse me,” Arya called out. She started off innocuous enough at first, and she saw the serving girl look up quickly, surprise in her eyes. When she saw it was Arya, a smile came to her face which Arya suspected was not genuine. “I’m looking for a pair of brown pants. Have you seen them?”

The girl shrugged. She was no older than Sansa’s age. “I have many pants in this load, m’lady. But you are welcome to look through them.”

“Thank you.” Arya began to rifle through the load, but in truth she wasn’t looking for anything. She recognized this girl, and she wanted to talk to her. “Your accent is not northern. Where are you from?”

“The Reach, m’lady. I…I came up here with Lord Tarly.”

 _Lie._ “Oh,” Arya said, feigning belief. “Where in the Reach?”

“Tumbleton.” The serving girl blurted out a little too quickly.

 _Lie._ “Ahh, the seat of House Bulwer. Their sigil is…three black thunderbolts on orange?”

The girl hesitated, her hands wringing the shirt she was supposed to be hanging up. “That’s right.”

 _No,_ Arya thought. _That’s wrong._ “House Bulwer are Lords of Blackcrown, and that sigil belongs to House Leygood. Tumbleton belongs to House Footly. Their sigil is…?”

“A golden horn of plenty.”

“House Merryweather. Try again.”

“A black field with a spider on a silver web.”

“House Webber.” Arya gave up on her charade and walked closer to the girl, so she could meet her eyes. “You’ve never been to the Reach, have you?”

“No, m’lady.”

“You’re from the Vale, aren’t you?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“And you came here with Lord Baelish, didn’t you?”

The girl could not look at her now. “Yes, m’lady. I…I come from the town near Coldwater Burn. Seat of House Coldwater, sigil a blue pall with white borders, on a red field. M’lady.”

 _Finally, the truth._ “Your name is Jenny.” It wasn’t a question the way Arya said it.

Jenny looked at her with wide eyes. “How did you…?”

“I have my ways of knowing things.” Arya had done some investigating into her, had been since she saw Littlefinger slipping her a coin months ago. Servants always liked to talk about one another, and Arya was good at eavesdropping without being noticed. It was amazing the things servants said when they thought no highborns were around. “Lord Baelish was paying you to spy for him. Who on – my sister?”

Jenny flushed. “No, m’lady.”

“Who then?”

“…On you.”

Arya should’ve suspected as much. She laughed humorlessly. That man had tried so hard to undermine her, but in the end she’d won, and it was his blood they'd mopped off Winterfell's floor. “I hear you have two children back in the Fingers, Jenny. A boy and a girl. You must love them a lot, don’t you?”

Poor Jenny looked terrified. She dropped her laundry on the ground and fell to her knees by Arya’s feet, her hands folded as she begged. “Please m’lady, I’m so sorry I betrayed you. I…I will ride home for Coldwater at once, I won’t say nothing to nobody, just please don’t hurt them…I’m sorry for what I've done, I swear it…”

Arya shushed her. “Jenny, sweetling, who do you think I am? I would never hurt children. They’re innocent. I’m simply saying…well, some money to send home to them would certainly help out, would it not?”

Jenny looked up at her, residual tears still streaming down her face. “Well…yes m’lady…”

“How much did Littlefinger pay you?”

“Twenty silver stags a month, m’lady.”

“Are you literate?”

“A little, m’lady. My husband was steward to Lord Coldwater, and before the flux took him away he taught me the basics of reading and writing.”

Arya nodded and dug into her coin purse. “I need you to leave here at once – hitch a ride with the next wagon going south. Once you’re in King’s Landing, you’re going to find yourself employ at the Red Keep as a washerwoman. I need you to listen in on what Qyburn and the Mountain are planning, and see if you can find out if Cersei Lannister’s baby is still alive. I want a report sent back to me every week, do you understand?”

Jenny nodded, and Arya lifted her back onto her feet.

“I’ll pay you fifty silver stags upfront, and another fifty once the job is done.” Arya offered. “Plus a gold dragon for your troubles. Do we have a deal?”

She pulled one of the silver stags out and held it in front of Jenny’s face, but still the girl looked unsure. “I want all of the money up front.” She said, her voice shaking as she made the demands. “And ten gold dragons afterwards.”

Arya laughed. “You think you can bargain with me? Ask me one more time and my offer goes down to thirty.” Jenny closed her mouth and looked away, appearing bashful. “So, I repeat, do we have a deal?”

Five minutes later, the Mistress of Whisperers sauntered off with fifty fewer silver stags in her purse, but with a feeling of satisfaction at having acquired her first informant. 

When she’d apprenticed with the Faceless Men, Jaqen used to send her out for the day and tell her she wasn’t allowed to return until she’d uncovered a secret. She knew how to find things out, and spying was easier when you could take on a face that was not your own. But Arya could not be in every place at once, and having a network would prove useful. When Jon was running the kingdoms, she wanted to know as much as possible for his sake. If she could get little birds to sing to her, make it worth their while, they’d prove loyal. _Some people want to be feared, and others want to be loved,_  Arya thought to herself.  _But I'd much rather be feared_ and  _loved._ She wanted them to love to serve her, but to also fear the consequences if they ever committed a betrayal. 

She walked upstairs to Sansa’s solar, finding her sister sitting in a chair by the hearth, working on her needlework. Other northern ladies were scattered about the room, some working on sewing, others sitting down to tea and cakes – Alys Karstark, Lyanna Mormont, Eddara Tallhart, Wynafyrd and Wylla Manderly, and others of all ages. Lady Roslin Tully was there as well, sitting quietly next to Sansa while her son played by her feet. Four-year-old Axel tugged on her skirts and Roslin smiled down at him. In truth Arya barely knew her aunt – having only met her a month ago when Jaime Lannister brought her back from the Twins – but she seemed kind, though also a little shy. Sansa had been working on ingratiating Lady Roslin into her circle of acquaintances for weeks, and Arya tried her best to make her aunt feel welcome, though they didn't seem to have much in common. 

Sansa looked up from her needlework and narrowed her eyes at Arya. “Where have you been? You’re late for tea.”  

Arya swiped a honeycake from the table, ruffled Axel’s hair, and sat down by the fire. “Listening to little birds.”

Sansa did not question her and went back to threading her needle. “Do you like white or grey better?”

Arya took a bite of honeycake and licked the stickiness from her fingers. “Grey, I suppose. Why?”

“I’m starting to sew your wedding dress.”

“Sansa!” Arya sighed. “I told you, I don’t want a wedding dress.”

“What are you going to get married in then?”

“What’s wrong with the clothes I already have?”

Sansa laughed in response.

“Oh, you must have a wedding dress!” Lady Roslin interjected. “Before I married Edmure, I spent days just picking out lace. It’ll be all worth it when your husband-to-be sees you walking down the aisle.”

Arya knew Roslin was only trying to be nice, but her aunt-by-marriage did not know her at all if she thought Arya cared about lace. What was the big deal anyway, didn’t all lace look the same? “Gendry knew what he was getting into when he agreed to marry me. I’m not ladylike.”

“But you will be a lady.” Sansa said. “You’ll have responsibilities. Household management, planning dinners, hosting guests…And Gendry will probably need your help with the bigger things too, considering he’s never been prepared for any of it.”

“I know.” Arya had thought about it all before. The duties she would have as Lady of Storm’s End would be tedious at times, and she had never wanted any of them, but it would be worth it because at least she’d get to spend her life with Gendry. If they were together, that was what mattered. She’d go anywhere or do anything as long as she could be with him.

“Someone doesn’t need to be feminine to be a lady.” Lyanna Mormont piped up. She wasn’t working on needlework like the others, but whittling a piece of wood into a sharp point. “All you need is a good heart and a strong mind. I think Arya will be fine in that regard.”

Sansa nodded. “You’re right, Lady Mormont.” She glanced at Arya. “I’m still making you the dress – you don’t have to wear it, but at least look at it before you decide.”

Arya silently decided that she liked Lyanna Mormont best of them all in that instant.

She wiped her hands off on her pants – just to annoy Sansa – and then sat down on the floor next to little Axel. The boy was playing with a set of wooden blocks and when he saw Arya, his face lit up with a smile. He handed one of the blocks to her. “Play wit’ me?”

“Of course.” Axel had come up with some game of pretend, in which the square blocks represented dragons and the round ones represented the knights, and Arya quickly acquainted herself with the rules. As she played with her little cousin, she felt Sansa’s eyes on her and sure enough, her sister was staring at her with an amused smile. “What?”

Sansa shook her head, still smiling, and went back to her sewing. “Nothing.” She said. “Nothing at all…”

Arya only rolled her eyes, and turned back to little Axel. _Lie._ She silently hoped that Gendry’s wedding preparations were going easier than hers were…

* * *

**DAVOS**

“You’ll never read well if you move your lips – that’s how children do it.”

Gendry scowled but shut his mouth, staring down in frustration at the page. “Or…Or-ees Baratheon…”

“Or- _is_.” Davos corrected gently, not looking up the piece of wood he was whittling. He was not sure what he was going to make it into yet, just letting his hands do whatever felt natural. “Go on, you’re doing well.”

“Orys Baratheon was the baseborn half-brother to King Ay-gawn…”

“Egg-on, like ‘egg’.”

“King Aegon Tar-gair-ee-in. At the battle known as the Last Storm, he…defeated Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King…The crowned stag of House…Durr-in-don? No, _Durrandon_ …became his sig…his sigil, Storm’s End his seat, and King Agrilac’s dau…daughter, Ar-jel-uh, his wife…”

“ _Argella._ A hard ‘g’, but very good nonetheless. You’ve made great progress.” A month ago, after the war was won, Gendry had come to him with three surprises: he was to be legitimized as Lord of Storm’s End, he was engaged to marry Arya Stark, and he wanted Davos to teach him how to read. In truth, Davos had been surprised that Gendry would ask him. Surely Lady Arya could teach him with her noble education.

But Gendry had insisted. “I want you to do it.” He’d said. “You know what it’s like. You weren’t born into this life either, and now you’re a king and queen’s councilor. No one would be a better teacher than you.”

Davos had started him off with a children’s book about Brandon the Builder he’d found, to teach Gendry the letters and how to pronounce shorter words. Once he’d mastered that, Davos searched Winterfell’s library for some books about the Stormlands, to teach the boy about his future home. It was hard to find books about the Baratheons, but there was Malleon’s _Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ and Yandel’s _The World of Ice and Fire_ , both of which Davos selected some passages out of.

“Lord Orys sounds like he was a good man.” Gendry said now, referring back to the passage he’d just been reading from. “Did Argella Durrandon’s own men really turn her over, chained and naked?”

“Aye, they did.” Davos confirmed. “So Lord Orys wrapped his cloak around her to keep her warm. I think that’s why men cloak their brides at highborn weddings nowadays.” Everyone always said how chivalrous it was of Lord Orys to treat Princess Argella as he did, though Davos did not know how much praise a man deserved for just being a decent person. Even so Orys Baratheon seemed to have been a honorable man in his time, though the loss of his hand had made him vengeful and bitter. “You know, Lord Orys was a bastard, and he was the founder of your house.”

Gendry smiled slightly. “The irony is not lost on me. Though he was loved by his half-brother King Aegon, and he probably grew up knowing how to read and write and wield a sword.”

“Well, you know how to forge swords and wield a hammer, and soon you’ll be reading and writing with the best of them. As for the King Aegon bit, Jon may not be your brother by blood, but he’ll be your brother by law soon, and I know he has affection for you.” Davos tapped the page. “Come on now, lad – keep reading.”

Gendry continued onto the next page and Davos listened, whittling in silence for the most part, only speaking when he needed to help Gendry with his pronunciation. He ran his knife down the grain of the wood, gliding across a curve.

Suddenly, Davos paused. He was no longer paying attention to anything that Gendry was saying, as he realized what it was that he’d instinctively been carving. He had the face, the legs, one of the antlers…he was making a stag.

Once, Shireen had asked him to carve her a stag, so her doe wouldn’t be lonely. Except now Shireen was dead, and the charred remains of her doe were upstairs in his bedside drawer, a sad remainder of her horrible end.

“Ser Davos?” Gendry’s voice brought Davos back to reality, and he found the younger man staring at him with a confused look. “Are you all right? You seemed out of it.”

“I’m fine. Go back to reading about Orys Baratheon, I’m listening.”

“I finished Orys Baratheon’s passages five minutes ago, and now I’m onto his son. I think I’ve pronounced ten words wrong in the last two sentences and you haven’t even noticed…” He trailed off, looking concerned. “Are you thinking about her? Shireen?”

“How did you…?”

“She was the one who taught you to read, right?”

“Yes.” Davos remembered how the little princess had come down to his cell when he’d been imprisoned by Stannis the first time, with books about Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Again Davos felt overcome by irony – a Baratheon had taught him how to read, and now here he was teaching another Baratheon.

Gendry closed the book and turned to look at him. “Tell me about her.”

“She was…” Davos sighed. “So sweet and kind. Gentle, and just pure good. There was not an ounce of malice in her. Other people would’ve become angry after what she endured, broken, but she never gave up hope. And she was smart, wise beyond her years. I loved her like she was my own daughter. Shireen would’ve made a good queen, but…” He trailed off, a lump rising in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.” Gendry insisted. “Shireen may have been my blood, but she was also your family. I know it’s hard.”

Davos nodded. He wished that Shireen could see him now. He hoped she would be proud of him, that he was helping the last member of her family. He thought she would’ve liked Gendry – Shireen had always been a lonely child, and it would’ve been nice for her to have cousins. “I wish you could’ve met her.”

Gendry smiled sadly. “I do too. Stannis was the only blood relative I ever got to know and well…that didn’t turn out well, did it?”

Davos clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You know I care for you, right lad?”

“Aye, Ser Davos – and thank you.”

Davos sighed and clapped his hands together. “Very well then. Open that book up again, and tell me all about Orys’s sons…”  

* * *

**SAMWELL**

The great hall was filled with merriment and revelry, as fires roared in the hearths, ale was flowing freely, and a woman was singing cheerful songs like “Flowers of Spring” or “Let Me Drink Your Beauty” while a young lordling accompanied her on the fiddle.  

Tonight they had been given the seats of honor on the dais where the king and queen usually sat. Sam glanced at Gilly next to him, her brown eyes watching the dancing couples, while Sam watched her. She was his wife, as of about three hours ago – he still couldn’t quite believe it. When she’d walked towards him in Winterfell’s godswood that evening, glowing in a simple white dress with lace sleeves, a wreath of holly nestled in her curled hair, Sam had thought that there had never been a more beautiful woman in the history of the world.

Gilly caught him staring and she smiled, turning to thread her arm through his. “What are you thinking about, husband?”

Sam couldn’t help but smile at her use of the word ‘husband’. “That I love you very much.”

“I love you too.” She replied, gently kissing him on the lips. Sam leaned into her and their lips met again, the kiss being longer and deeper this time, but eventually Sam forced himself to pull away, remembering that they were still in public. Gilly’s cheeks – already frost-kissed – turned a deeper red.

He looked around the great hall. Some of the lords and ladies were dancing in the northern style, while boys chased each other around the room and girls were spinning each other round in circles. Sam saw Jon with Queen Daenerys, talking to Davos and Marya Seaworth – one of Jon’s arms was wrapped around Daenerys’s waist while the other was holding Little Sam. The boy liked Sam’s best friend a lot, and in Sam’s opinion Jon seemed to have a natural way with children, even if he did not realize it himself.

Sansa Stark was laughing with Lady Brienne, while across the room Tyrion Lannister was telling a joke to his brother, Ser Bronn, and Tormund Giantsbane that involved – if Sam heard him correctly – a honeycomb and a jackass. Dolorous Edd and some of his former Night’s Watch brothers were laughing over pints of ale. Arya Stark was shamelessly kissing Gendry Baratheon in a way that made Sam wonder if she was drunk or if she just didn’t care who was watching, until Sandor Clegane picked up a chicken bone and threw it across the table at them with an annoyed cry of “oh, get a room!”

“I’m glad we decided to do this now, and not wait until we get to Highgarden.” Sam told Gilly. “I think everyone needed this, after these past few months.” Now that the White Walkers were gone and Cersei Lannister was dead, hopefully they would all be able to move on. There’d still been losses during the war, of course, but Sam was glad to see everyone smiling and laughing. There’d been a time when he’d thought he’d never get to see his friends happy again. “I also just couldn’t wait to marry you.”

“I know.” Gilly agreed. “When do you think we’ll go to Highgarden?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll probably march to King’s Landing in the next month or so, and then you and I will go on to Highgarden after Jon and Daenerys have the Iron Throne. So maybe…within the next two, three months?”

“I wonder what it’s like there.” Gilly mused. “I heard it’s beautiful. With sunshine and blue water, and so many types of flowers you can’t remember all their names…”

“I went to Highgarden once, when I was a boy.” Sam told her. His father took him on a visit to see Mace Tyrell once. He had wanted Sam to stay at Highgarden, to become a page, but then when he was introduced to Lord Tyrell’s daughter and her playmates, Sam had been so intimidated – he’d never known what to say to pretty girls back then, so just the sight of the Tyrell girls made him tongue tied. The other pages had mocked him mercilessly for the rest of their stay, and ultimately Lord Randyll had abandoned his plans and brought Sam back to Horn Hill with him. His father had been furious, and Sam had sobbed the whole way home. “It has high stone walls, and between the outer and middle wall there’s a briar labyrinth so large you could get lost in it for hours. There are orchards and groves of all kinds of fruits: peaches, plums, melons. Lord Tyrell would sail pleasure boats down the Mander, and the castle always had a new singer or mummer to perform. There are fields of golden roses that stretch as far as the eye can see.”

Gilly was now staring at him with wide, joyful eyes. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is.” Sam placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed it. “I think we can be happy there. It’ll be a fresh start for us both, a home we can make our own. And there will be plenty of room for Little Sam to run and play…”

They both glanced at their son, who had now been passed from Jon to Queen Daenerys, who was smiling at him as the four-year-old tugged on her hair in fascination. “That sounds nice.” Gilly said, before shyly adding: “Perhaps we should start working on a brother or sister for him to play with.”

Sam could not help but smile, and he picked up his cup of ale. “Perhaps. How many children do you want? We’ve never discussed specifics.”

His wife mulled it over in silence for a moment. “Hmm, just a small family. Maybe…seven or eight?”

Sam choked on his ale. “Seven or eight _what_?”

“Children, of course.” Gilly replied, looking at him in confusion. “Why, is that not enough?”

“Seven or eight children is a small family to you?”

Gilly shrugged. “Well, yes. I had so many sisters they were beyond counting, and Little Sam was Craster’s 99th son. How many children do families in Westeros have?”

“It depends really. Some people have more and some have less, but I’d say three to five is the standard.” Lord Hightower had ten children, but Sam didn’t want to bring that up to Gilly and give her any ideas. “Perhaps we should start with two or three, and then see how we feel after that.”

“I think that’s a good idea. Speaking of family, what about your mother and sister? Are they to join us at Highgarden?”

“I don’t know.” Sam had sent a raven to his mother after the battle, to tell her was being released from his Night’s Watch vows and going to marry Gilly, but her reply had not reached him yet. He did not know what exactly was going to happen to Horn Hill – as much as Sam wanted to give it to Talla, his father had already betrothed her to Symun Fossoway, Lord of Cider Hall. Sam wondered when the wedding was supposed to take place, or if they were possibly even married already. He felt bad knowing his sister did not want to marry Lord Symun, but Sam did not know if he could break the betrothal and risk upsetting the Fossoways when political tensions were already high. “I think Mother may want to, but Talla has to get married and start her own household.”

“Well, your mother is more than welcome. She was so nice to me, I really do like her Sam.” The music in the room had shifted as the singer now began a slower song, the fiddle having been replaced by someone on a harp.

“ _I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair…_ ”

Abruptly, Gilly stood up and took Sam’s hand. “Dance with me.”

Sam could only gawk at her for a moment. “Gilly, I don’t dance very well…”

“Neither do I, but we can try. Come, it’s our wedding, let’s have this one dance.”

Sam glanced at the dance floor, where the jolly children had been replaced by a series of married couples, holding each other’s hands and swaying to the music.

“ _I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair…_ ”

With a reluctant sigh, Sam stood up. “You must promise not to laugh at me if I make a fool of myself.”

Gilly grinned and kissed his cheek. “I’m sure you’re better at it than you think. You’re the smartest person I know, Samwell Tarly.” Sam blushed at her compliment – Gilly always saw potential in him that he couldn’t seem to see in himself. She dragged him down off the dais by the hand and they moved to the center of the room, Sam placing his hands on Gilly’s hips while she wrapped her arms around his neck. “See? Not so bad.”

“ _I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair…_ ”

Sam watched her in silence for a long moment, admiring her content smile and her pink cheeks. _What did I do to deserve a woman as beautiful and kind and good as her?_ “I love you – more than anything. I don’t deserve to be this happy.”

“Don’t be stupid, Samwell Tarly. You deserve all of this and more – and I love you too.”

He leaned in and their lips were about to touch again, when suddenly the doors to the great hall burst open and a messenger raced into the hall.

“My king! My queen!”

Immediately a hush fell upon the room as every conversation ended at once. The singer cut off mid-verse and the harp ceased playing. There was the sound of shattering as someone somewhere dropped a tankard of ale on the floor. Daenerys placed Little Sam down on the ground and the boy immediately raced to Gilly, throwing his arms around his mother’s legs as he burrowed his face into her skirt.

Jon stepped forward, Daenerys half a step behind. She reached for him and clutched his hand. “What is the meaning of this?” Jon asked, his voice stern and steady.

The messenger standing in the open doorway was physically shaking, so much so that Sam feared his legs would give way at any moment. He extended one pale hand towards Jon, a raven scroll clutched tightly between his fingers. That was when Sam knew something was very wrong.

“It’s from the capital, my king. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”  


	3. Declaration of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon plan their next move; Gendry and Arya discuss their marriage plans; Brienne and Jaime think of home; the Lannister brothers go their separate ways.

**DAENERYS**

“Cersei is _what_?”

The messenger – a boy of about fifteen or sixteen years old, with terrified eyes and a hairless face – gulped. “Alive, Your Grace.”

Even hearing the news a second time made Daenerys’s pulse pound in her ears and she could scarcely breathe. “Why was I told she was dead if she wasn’t?”

“The original letter must’ve been wrong, my queen. Perhaps the handmaid got ahead of herself…”

Next to her, Jon was staring down at the ground with his arms crossed over his chest and a unreadable expression on his face. Daenerys turned away from the messenger and her husband and clenched her hands around the edges of the table. On the table in her solar she’d stretched out a map of Westeros, figures taken from a cyvasse set spread across the map to represent her various allies and foes as they’d planned their march south for King’s Landing. She’d been planning on a peaceful transition of power, but now Daenerys knew there was no chance for that, and angry tears blurred her vision. Impulsively she shoved half the pieces off the table and they fell loudly to the floor, some of them shattering against the wood.

“Daenerys.” Hot, angry tears began to roll down her cheeks as Jon approached her from behind, wrapping his arms around her middle as he pulled her into him. Initially she tried to shove him off, but Jon’s hold on her only tightened and he burrowed his face into her hair. Eventually Daenerys gave in and leaned into his embrace, allowing her husband to hold her as she cried. “It’s all right,” Jon soothed. “It’s all right…”

_No it’s not._ She wanted to shout, but she forced the words back down her throat and tried to take some deep breaths. She wiped the tears away from her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “I was such a fool.” Daenerys said to him. “Believing that it could really be this easy…that we could take back the Iron Throne without bloodshed…”

“You’re not a fool.” Jon insisted, and Daenerys turned around so she could hug him back, her face pressed up against his chest. The messenger was dismissed by a wave of Jon’s hand and he left without another word, the door slamming shut behind him. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

Finally, Daenerys had calmed down enough that she could breathe easy again, and she pulled away from Jon with one last sniffle. Her shock and anger had faded away into a resoluteness as she composed herself, turning her eyes back to the map on the table. “We cannot wait any longer, Jon. We need to go south.”

Jon looked hesitant. “Daenerys, you’re _pregnant_ …”

“Yes,” She interjected. “And I’m also a queen.” She was _Mhysa_ , the Mother of Dragons, a mother to her people as much as she was to the children in her womb. Cersei did not care about her people, but Daenerys did. _What is a queen if not a protector?_ “Cersei is not fit to sit the Iron Throne, Jon. I know in this past month we’ve talked about the kind of Westeros we want to build, the kind of world we want our children to grow up in…but that world will never exist if we don’t act now.”

Her words seem to affect him, as she could see Jon’s grey eyes soften. “You’re right. As much as I wish I could lock you up and make sure you’re safe for the next six months, I can’t do that.”

“I can protect myself. I know you only think this way because you love us, but you have to trust me.”

Jon nodded. “I do trust you. I know you’re very capable Daenerys.”

“Good.” She said. “Now, how many fighting men and women do we have left?”

“We started with 110,000 pledged to us, but considering our losses in the Battle for the Dawn, I’d say…70,000 khalasar, 5,000 Unsullied, 3,000 Northmen? Plus most of the Fiery Hand is still intact.”

Daenerys nodded her head. “That puts us at around 80,000 men. But Cersei has the 20,000 members of the Golden Company, all of Euron Greyjoy’s remaining men and ships, the majority of the houses from the Reach, and all of the Lannister armies. She probably has almost 80,000 in ground and naval forces. We need more – if we could get back up to our old numbers, I’d say our victory is secure.”

“And where do you suggest we get another 30,000 soldiers?”

In response, Daenerys walked to the door and peeked her head out to address the Unsullied stationed there. “Brown Flea, summon my Hand, Lady Stark, and the Greyjoys please.”

She was picking the cyvasse pieces off the floor when the door opened again a few moments later. “The Hand of the King and Queen, the Wardeness of the North, and the Queen and Prince of the Iron Islands, Your Graces.”

Sansa and Yara stepped into the room first, Tyrion and Theon close behind, as Daenerys placed two dragons carved out of onyx back on the map. “She’s alive?” Sansa asked. “Cersei?”

Jon nodded solemnly. “It would appear so.”

Daenerys watched as Sansa took in a deep breath, meanwhile Tyrion squeezed his eyes shut. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true.” The Lady of Winterfell was saying. “This was all probably some trap to lure us south, so she could kill us all…”

“An honest mistake.” Jon insisted. “The original letter came from a serving girl at the Red Keep, who’d been one of Varys’s informants while he was still alive. Apparently Cersei had a difficult labor and the girl got ahead of herself.”

“And her child?” Tyrion asked. His voice was quiet, and Daenerys could tell that her Hand was trying his best to keep himself calm.

The queen shook her head. “Still no word. It may be dead.”

“Or it may be alive.” Theon interjected. “In which case Cersei now has a heir, and an increasing number of allies.”

“Yes, that is what we summoned you here to discuss. We need more men if we want to march south and displace Cersei.”

“You’re going to go?” Sansa said. “But isn’t that what she probably wants? What if this whole lie was a ruse, to lure us into a false sense of security?”

“Even if it was,” Jon said. “King’s Landing has a population of almost one million. We cannot let them languish under Cersei’s rule. Her hold on the Seven Kingdoms is only getting stronger, and if we want to take them back, it’s now or never.”

“His Grace is right.” Tyrion piped up. “I know my sister. She would rather see the city burn than fall into someone else’s hands. Those people are not safe as long as she is queen, and we’ll need more men if we want to save them. What do you suggest?”   

Daenerys shifted through the cyvasse pieces: catapult, spearmen, crossbowmen, trebuchet. “We were already planning to send Gendry down to Storm’s End with Ser Davos when the time was right.” She placed a light horse atop the Stormlands on the map. “But after how the War of the Five Kings decimated their forces, they cannot have many fighting men left. I’d say 2,500 at most. It’s not enough to make much of a difference, but still, I’d rather they be on our side than Cersei’s.”

“What about the Riverlands?” Sansa asked. “My uncle Edmure is still imprisoned at Riverrun by Lannister forces. Lord Jaime planned to free him. If we could, do you think he’d be able to rally his men to our cause?”

“Perhaps.” Daenerys knew little of Lord Edmure Tully, as neither she nor Jon had ever met him, and even Sansa and Arya had not seen their uncle in years. Even if they could liberate him from Riverrun, it was said his bitterness towards Jaime Lannister ran deep, and he may not want to affiliate himself with these wars any further. “The Tullys sustained little casualties in the wars, comparatively. They probably still have 20,000 men. It would certainly help in getting us back to our old numbers – but we cannot bet on their loyalty.”

“After everything that’s happened, the Riverlands may not want to heed the call of a king and queen they do not know.” Jon said. “You know I hold no animosity towards your mother, Sansa, but all Edmure Tully knows of me is that Lady Catelyn never liked me.”

Still, Sansa raised her chin indignantly. “I am Edmure’s niece, as is Arya, and we’ve sheltered his wife and son this past moonturn. Surely honor will compel him to join our side.”

“But he has not seen you and Arya since you were girls, only spent one night with Roslin Frey, and has never met his son. The four of you are strangers to him, as the rest of us are.”

Daenerys turned over another cyvasse piece in her hand, and placed a heavy horse atop the Riverlands on the map. “We must try to win him over. Still, his men alone would not be enough. The Riverlands and the Stormlands together would not be enough. That’s why I’ve asked you four here.” She moved her finger from the Riverlands across to the Vale of Arryn. “The Knights of the Vale fought with Jon at the Battle of the Bastards, and for us in the War of the Dawn. Their numbers are strong, even after the losses they took in both battles. Lady Stark, it was you who convinced Lord Baelish to bring the Knights of the Vale to Jon’s cause, and you also kept Yohn Royce on our side during the Great War. Now both of them are dead. Have you heard from Lord Arryn recently?”

Sansa shook her head. “I wrote to Robin a month ago, before the first letter, asking him to let us keep the Knights of the Vale with us until Cersei’s been defeated, but there has been no reply. The Knights answer to him now, and they will not stay here without a commander.”

“Do you think you could convince Lord Arryn if you were to see him in person?”

“Go to the Vale, you mean?” Sansa mulled it over, and for a long moment she was silent. “I have not seen my cousin in a few years, and I do not know if he has matured any in that time. But…I think there’s a chance I may be able to convince him, yes.”

“It’s the best chance we’ve got.” Jon said. “Could you go Sansa?” His sister nodded yes.

“Your Graces?” Daenerys and Jon both turned to look at Tyrion. “Might I go with Lady Stark to the Eyrie as well?”

Daenerys had thought he might say that. “It’s risky. The last time you were there, they tried to execute you. What if they try again?”

“Lord Tyrion and I will look out for each other.” Sansa insisted. “No one will hurt him while I’m around.” Tyrion smiled at that.

Reluctantly, Jon nodded. “Very well.”

“Then, there’s Dorne.” Daenerys moved a figurine down the map until it was resting by Sunspear. “We forged an alliance with Ellaria Sand, but she’s dead now, and we never got her armies because Euron Greyjoy intercepted us. But their men are still there, and not declared for either side. Yara, Theon, if you are willing I’d like to send you to Dorne – you were allies with the Sands once, why not again?”

“Aren’t all the Sand Snakes dead?” Theon asked.

“Not the younger ones.” Tyrion answered. “Prince Oberyn Martell had eight daughters, with five still living. The youngest two are girls still, but the elders have Martell blood in their veins and are old enough to keep power in Dorne. They’re the ones you’ll have to convince.”

Theon looked at Yara, and his sister grabbed his hand to trace a message on his palm with her finger. “She says we could sail from Widow’s Watch, drop Lady Stark and Lord Tyrion off in the Vale, then switch ships at Gulltown so we can continue on to Sunspear inconspicuously. Yara will write to the Sand Snakes, but what should we tell them?”

“Tell them we can give them their heart’s desire: justice for their murdered mother and sisters.”

“Fire and blood.” Tyrion added. “If there’s one thing we can count on, it’s that the Dornish hate Cersei.”  

“Both the Vale and Dorne have significant numbers.” Daenerys said. “If we can get even one of them to commit to our cause, we’ll outnumber Cersei and have as many soldiers as we did before the Battle for the Dawn.”

They dispersed, Sansa saying she needed to start packing for her journey and then get some sleep, Theon and Yara to alert their men that they needed a ship prepared for the morrow, but Tyrion lingered behind. “Your Graces,” He said tentatively. “Has…has my brother been informed?”

In the chaos following the news about Cersei, Daenerys had not thought of that. “I do not think he has.”

Tyrion looked dismayed. “Well, I suppose I shall – ”

“Actually,” Jon interjected. “Let me.” When Daenerys and Tyrion both gave him quizzical looks, he explained: “I think it would be best for the news to come from one father to another.”

Despite their turbulent history, Daenerys felt a pang of sadness for Jaime Lannister. As a pregnant woman, as a human being in general, she could not imagine what it must feel like to not know if your baby was alive or dead. At least if you knew it to be dead, you had an answer, however hard it may be. _What would I do if there was a chance Rhaego was out there somewhere and I could not get to him? I’d be sick with worry._ “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning by now. You can shatter his world tomorrow, I think.”

Tyrion left the room after wishing them both a somber ‘goodnight’, and Jon came over to kiss her lightly on the brow. “We should try to sleep now, my love. It’s been a long day.”

“Go on ahead, I’ll be right behind you. I want to finish cleaning up this mess.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until it’s done.”

Reluctantly, Jon assented and kissed her again, before leaving the solar for their bedchamber. Once she was alone, Daenerys finished picking up the scattered cyvasse pieces from the floor, placing them back on the table in the spots where they belonged. _Elephants for the Golden Company._ She thought. _Dragons for House Targaryen…_

She reached down and picked up the last piece, the most important piece in the entire game: the king. The figurine was beautifully carved from onyx, glimmering jet black, but when it smashed against the wooden floor it had fractured. Now, the king had no head on his shoulders.

_Yes,_ Daenerys thought. _I do not think I’ll be able to sleep tonight at all._

* * *

**GENDRY**

The candle was burning low and his eyes were getting heavy, but he was determined to finish this chapter. _Don’t move your lips,_ He reminded himself silently of Ser Davos’s words. _That’s how children do it._

Ever since he began to learn how to read, it was like a whole new world was opened to him, one like he had never seen before. How was it possible that all these symbols scratched on a page could link together to form such profound meanings, to tell so much about the world? There were so many things Gendry had never learned that were now at his fingertips. He was twenty-two years old and all his life he’d stared at the signs on the streets of Flea Bottom or at the books that highborns carried with them when they came into Tobho Mott’s shop, and he’d resigned himself to the fact that he would never know the written language of the lords and ladies. But now all of a sudden it had opened to him, and it was more than he could’ve ever imagined. It was almost magical what words could do.

On the page there was a colored illustration of a woman with silver hair as she took the hand of a black-haired, black-bearded man. They were standing in front of a septon who seemed to be marrying them with great pomp and circumstance, surrounded by a crowd of regally dressed people including a young boy with a crown on his head. That had to be Jaehaerys, the Old King, when he was young, and the smiling little girl next to him had to be his future sister-wife Alysanne the Good. _The Golden Wedding,_ the caption read.

Gendry was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and he looked up to see Arya slip quietly into his bedchamber. “Arya, you can’t be in here.”

“Of course I can.” His betrothed insisted, closing the door behind her. She was wearing only her nightgown and had her hair pulled half-up, half-down.

Gendry took notice of her state of dress and though he wanted to welcome her into the bed, he knew logically that he shouldn’t. “We’re not married. If anyone sees you – ”

Arya cut him off with a laugh. “Do you honestly think I care about that, Gendry? Let people say what they want.”

“But your honor – ”

“Fuck my honor. And we’ve already agreed that we’re going to get married anyway. So what if I want to start the honeymoon a little early? Now scoot over.”

Gendry opened his mouth to object, then closed it. He could not refuse Arya. “Come here.” He said reluctantly, moving over in the bed, and Arya grinned as she climbed in to join him.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders as Arya burrowed into him, her arms weaving around his waist and her head on his chest. “What are you reading about?”

“Davos gave me some books that mention the Baratheons. I’m on Lord Rogar now, and his wedding to Dowager Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Did you know that Lord Brandon Stark was there with his sons Walton and Alaric? And there were over fifty courses served at the wedding feast? And Lord Rogar wore an antlered halfhelm, I bet the craftsmanship on it was impeccable…”

Arya emitted a quiet noise of disgust. “I always hated Rogar when Septa Mordane talked about him in history lessons.” She gave Gendry a look. “Sorry, I know he’s your ancestor.”

“I don’t care. What did he do?”

“I won’t spoil it for you, just keep reading.” Arya examined the image in the book. “I always liked Queen Alyssa though. You know she stole Dark Sister, Visenya Targaryen’s Valyrian steel sword? And after her son Viserys was murdered, she wanted to get revenge on his killers, so Jaehaerys gave her their heads and severed hands as gifts. Sansa was horrified when we first heard that story, but I liked that Alyssa was vengeful, even though she was also a wife, mother and queen. Women still have the same emotions as men do, you know.”

Gendry smirked. “She sounds like the kind of person you’d admire.”

“Oh, there’s so many more women I can’t wait for you to learn about. Queen Nymeria, who led the Rhoynar to Westeros. Alysanne Blackwood, who was wife to Cregan Stark and fought during the Dance of Dragons. Jonquil Darke, the Scarlet Shadow, sworn shield to Good Queen Alysanne…Sansa always liked the princesses, the maidens, the damsels in distress. I liked the women who saved themselves.”

Realizing he was probably not going to get any more reading down tonight, Gendry placed the book on the nightstand and rolled over to face Arya. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head. “No, but I always sleep better when you’re here to warm my bed.”

“Is that all I am to you? A bedwarmer?”

“Hmm, the sex is good too I suppose.” They both chuckled, but then Arya’s face grew serious. “I’ve been thinking about the messenger from King’s Landing. I think we’re going to have to go to war again.”

“You don’t know that – ” Gendry started to say, but Arya cut him off.

“I do. I can feel it, somewhere deep within me already knows. It was bad news.”

Gendry thought that somewhere within him he’d come to the same realization, even if he did not want to consider it. Something bad had to have happened. Maybe Cersei’s child was still alive and Qyburn intended to place the infant upon the Iron Throne. Maybe he’d taken it for himself. Maybe Cersei wasn’t even dead after all. _None of those options are good for us._ When he’d first heard that Cersei was gone, he’d been happy. She was the woman who had killed his father, she’d tried to kill him, and she’d stood idly by as Arya’s father’s head was chopped off. That made Cersei Lannister his enemy. He’d been glad to know that she wouldn’t be a problem anymore, but now that didn’t seem to be the case.

“I don’t want to go to war again.” He whispered.

Arya sighed and burrowed further into him. “Me either. I thought everything was finally going to be all right. That maybe we could finally be happy, and put the past behind us…I don’t want to fight anymore, Gendry. I’m so tired of fighting.”

The way her voice faltered over the last words broke his heart, and Gendry dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll still be happy. No matter what the news is, we’ll overcome it together, I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.”

They laid there in silence for a while, Arya’s face burrowed into Gendry’s chest and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands running casually through her hair. Her smaller body was warm in his embrace. “Let’s get married.” He blurted out impulsively.

Arya glanced up at him, her eyebrows knitting together. “We’re already getting married, stupid.”

“I know that,” Gendry said. “I just meant…let’s get married _now_. Here at Winterfell, before we have to go south.”

Arya didn’t say anything at first and she released her hold on him, sitting up in bed and pulling her knees to her chest. “Gendry, you know I love you. I love you so much and I want to be your wife…but not now. Not like this.”

“Why not now?” _It might be the only chance we get._ But Gendry did not speak that thought aloud. He didn’t want to even consider that possibility.

Arya bit her lip. “This sounds stupid, I know. But marrying you…I want it to be special. I want it to be the right moment. So as much as I want to marry you…now’s not the moment. When it’s right, I’ll feel it, and I don’t feel it right now.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid.” Gendry told her. “And you know I’ll always be here, whenever you’re ready.” He’d already waited years to be with her, and he could wait a few more months. He held his arms out to her again. “Now, get back over here.”

With a slight smile, Arya laid back down and Gendry wrapped his arms around her again. “I love you.” She said.

“I love you too. Goodnight, m’lady.”

He saw her roll her eyes, but she was smiling too. “Don’t call me m’lady, idiot. Now blow that candle out so we can sleep.”

* * *

**BRIENNE**

_Sincerely, your loving daughter –_

No.

_Sincerely, your dutiful –_

Even more of a no.

With a sigh, Brienne dipped her quill back in the ink well and stared at the blank space at the bottom of the parchment, silently willing the right words to come. She had not written to her father since before the Battle for the Dawn, and the words she’d written could not even begin to convey the things she’d experienced in these past few months. _I came to Winterfell as the sworn shield to Ned Stark’s daughter, I’ve seen dragons and foreign armies and a man come back from the dead, I fought an army of the undead and had a boy I cared about die in my arms. And then there’s also the matter of the kiss I received from the one-handed knight-turned-lord I may have feelings for, who may have feelings for me too…_

How could she even begin to explain all these things to her father? Brienne suddenly wondered what he would think about Jaime Lannister. Lord Selwyn Tarth had always been a noble and honorable man who followed through on his word, and the rumors spread about Jaime did not exactly make him look trustworthy. Brienne knew she’d had a preconceived notion about the man they called the “Kingslayer” before she met him, but she could only hope that her father would appreciate what Jaime had done for her. _I’ve been through so much since I last saw him._ She thought. _Will he even recognize the person I’ve become after these six years we’ve spent apart?_

The stub of the tallow candle she’d lighted was now almost completely melted, but outside the window the sun was beginning to rise in the distance, indicating it was now early morning. Brienne had slept for barely a few hours the night before, so she’d risen before the sun hoping letter writing would take her mind off things. Ever since Sam and Gilly’s wedding reception had been interrupted the night before, the castle had been eerily quiet, and Brienne could only wonder what news the messenger had delivered.

There was a knock at her door and Brienne looked up, wondering if Lady Sansa needed something. “Come in.”

It was not Sansa Stark who appeared in the open doorway, but Jaime. “Am I disturbing you wench?”

“Not at all, I’ve been up for hours.” She noticed that Jaime was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and his voice was thick, indicating he had not slept well last night either. “Sit down. Should I call up a servant for some tea?”

“That won’t be necessary, wench.” The Lord of Casterly Rock pulled out a chair from the corner of Brienne’s chamber and came to rest near her desk, close enough that if Brienne reached her arm out, she could touch him. “I couldn’t sleep, but I could see the glow of the candle in your window from across the courtyard.”

_You were looking at my window?_ Brienne thought, but she did not speak it aloud. “I couldn’t sleep either, not well anyway. So I decided to work on some letters, since I haven’t written my father since before the battle.”

“Lord Selwyn of Tarth, the Evenstar. I’ve heard a lot about him – everyone says he is a good man.”

“He’s the greatest.” Brienne said, then she hesitated. “Perhaps you may meet him some day.”

She saw a ghost of a smile cross Jaime’s lips. “I’d like that. You know I saw Tarth, once.”

“You did?”

“Just from my ship, when I was sailing to Dorne with Bronn. It was jutting out of the sea like a speck of emerald, covered entirely in green trees. It is said to be beautiful.”

“It is.” In truth though, Brienne had never thought of Tarth as beautiful growing up: it had just been her home. She’d learned to swim in the lakes and waterfalls, scaled the blooming mountains, rode her horse through the towns with their moss-covered cottages, conversed with the smallfolk as she passed through. When she was younger she’d dreamed of getting away, but now she missed it. The green hills and rolling valleys, the smell of salty seas and fresh rain…

She snapped out of her reverie and turned to look at Jaime. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to return to Casterly Rock.”

For a long moment, Jaime was silent. “I do have good childhood memories there, yes. Being trained with the master-at-arms, sitting with my mother in her solar while she worked on her sewing…You know my grandfather used to keep lions at the Rock? But my father had them all put in cages down in the bowels of the castle. We used to go down there and dare each other to touch them, Cersei and – ” Abruptly Jaime cut himself off and he glanced away, unable to look at Brienne anymore.

She didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.” After all, Cersei had been his sister once.

“It’s all right.” Jaime said. He still couldn’t look at her. “It still hurts to think about her, even after everything she’s done. Because there was a time when I truly loved her, when she wasn’t a monster, and she…” He shook his head. “Suppose I’ll have to get used to it. When I go back to Casterly Rock, I’ll have to confront her memory at every turn. And my mother’s. And my father’s…”

“You don’t have to go back there.”

“Of course I do. I’m not a Kingsguard now, I’m Lord Lannister…” Jaime laughed, but there was no humor behind it. “If only Father could see me now. He got his wish.”

Brienne paused. “Do you want to be Lord of Casterly Rock?”

“I don’t know what I want, wench. Casterly Rock was my home once. In time maybe it can become my home again.”

Brienne stared at him for a long moment, and she could feel her face flushing pink. The words spilled out of her before she could call them back. “I feel at home when I’m with you.”

Jaime looked up at her, his green eyes meeting her blue ones, and neither of them said anything. Brienne felt like she couldn’t breathe. “I do too, wench.” He whispered finally, so low Brienne could barely hear. “I do too…”

He shifted in his seat, not taking his eyes off her, and Brienne suddenly hungered to kiss him again. The first time she hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t been able to savor the moment. She missed the feeling of his lips, ached for the warmth of his body pressed against hers, and with a sudden rush of boldness she moved to close the distance between them.

The door burst open and both of them immediately jumped back, Brienne turning away from Jaime to see who was at the door. This time it _was_ Sansa, frozen in the doorway with wide blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I thought you were alone. The door was ajar…”

Brienne hoped she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt. “It’s quite all right, my lady. Lord Lannister and I were just…talking about our plans for after the march south.”

At her words, Sansa’s eyes shifted from Brienne to Jaime, and Brienne saw a sadness in them. “Actually, Lord Lannister,” Sansa said. “My brother wants to speak with you. _Immediately_. I’m afraid it’s important.”

* * *

**JAIME**

The king was still speaking to him, but Jaime could not make out a single word he was saying at this point. _Cersei’s alive._ The news made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. He was suddenly reminded of after the Battle of the Goldroad, where he’d almost drowned – the darkness enveloping him, the burning in his lungs, how he’d struggled trying to reach the surface only to find himself sinking further down below. That was exactly what this felt like now. It was like drowning on dry land.

They were seated in the king and queen’s solar at opposite sides of a table, and outside the sun had now risen high in the sky as late morning came. “I know this must be difficult,” Jon Snow was saying to him. “As someone about to be a father, I understand what this must be like for you…”

Jaime looked up to meet his eyes. “Your Grace, with all due respect you cannot even begin to understand how I feel.” Jon Snow’s wife was here by his side, and the love they shared was so sweet it was almost sickening. All Jaime had was a sister who’d returned his blind loyalty by threatening to kill him, and a child that might be dead for all he knew.  

Jon Snow nodded, his grey eyes filled with remorse. “You’re right.” He conceded. “You’re right, our positions are very different. I just meant that I can sympathize.”

Jaime felt bad for snapping at him, and the lump rising in his throat now made it difficult to speak. “And I thank you for your kind words.”

The king arose from his chair and stood there for an awkward pause, like he was unsure of what he should do. _What is the common courtesy for telling someone that their evil sister is alive and she may have had their child?_ Jaime wondered. He couldn’t imagine it was a common occurrence. In other circumstances, maybe he would’ve laughed at the absurdity of what he was facing.

“I could give you a moment alone, my lord, or should I send your brother in? I know he’d like to speak with you.”

As much as Jaime wanted to be alone, he knew that if he were there would be nothing to keep him from dissolving into despair. “I’ll speak with Tyrion.” Maybe his clever little brother would know what to do.

The king turned to go, but then on his way to the door he paused and turned to face Jaime again. “I really am sorry, my lord. I know we’ve had our differences but…” He trailed off uncomfortably. What more was there to say, really? No words could make this better.  

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Jon Snow quietly exited the room, and Tyrion slipped in a second later. The door shut behind him. Tyrion did not greet him jovially as usual but padded silently across the room, grabbing two cups from the drink cart. “Is ten a.m. too early to start drinking?”

Jaime tried to smile, but it came across as sad and pathetic. “In these circumstances, I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Tyrion poured them two cups of whatever alcohol it was that was on the drink cart. It wasn’t wine, instead it was something brown, probably a northern ale or mead. He then walked over to Jaime and placed one of the cups in front of him, and instead of sitting across the table like Jon Snow had he pulled out the chair next to his brother. “You know,” Tyrion said. “Despite all our differences, there was one thing Cersei and I have always had in common: drinking.”

Jaime laughed despite himself. “Well, cheers to drinking.”

“Cheers.”

They clinked their cups together and each took a long sip. The honey flavor that hit Jaime’s palette confirmed it was in fact mead, but the honey was followed up by a dry, tangy taste that was not to his liking. Still, he forced himself to raise the cup to his mouth again.

Tyrion drained half of his own and then placed it down on the table. “I was relieved, you know? When I heard that Cersei was dead. Because even after all she’s done to me, to both of us, I secretly…well, a part of me didn’t want to have to play a hand in her death. As evil as she is, I didn’t want to kill my own sister.”

For a long moment Jaime only stared into the depths of his cup, saying nothing. “I used to hate you for what you did.” He said to Tyrion, not looking up. “To Father. Even after everything that happened with the trial, I still felt angry. _How could he take our own father away from us?_ I wondered. But now, I think I know how you felt when you did it. Because right now I don’t care that Cersei is my sister, all I can think is how satisfying it would feel to drive my sword through her chest.”

“It’s not that simple. As much as I hated Father in that instance…killing him didn’t give me any pleasure, and it didn’t make what had happened go away. It only made me feel like a horrible person afterwards.”

Despite Tyrion’s words, they did not alleviate Jaime’s anger. His initial grief had now transformed into a steely determination. Cersei had tried to kill Tyrion, tried to kill Jaime. She’d manipulated and lied and murdered her way to power, and there was no one on this earth she loved more than herself. He could not and would not let her win.

Jaime looked over at his brother. “Jon Snow says there’s still no word about what happened to Cersei’s – ” He cut himself off. “To _my_ child.”

Tyrion frowned and drained the rest of his cup. “It might be dead, Jaime.”

“Yes, and it may also be alive out there.” He knew there was a slim chance, but if there was even a speck of hope that that baby was still alive, Jaime was not going to give up yet. _I failed Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen as a father. I will not fail this one too._ “You saw what Joffrey was, Tyrion. Cersei made him that way by nurturing him with her poison. If my child is still alive, I’m not going to let Cersei corrupt him or her, and nothing you say is going to change my mind. When we go south to King’s Landing, I am going to get my child back if it’s the last thing I do. Either help me or stand aside, because I will not let anything get in my way this time.”

“I’m with you.” His brother answered without hesitation. “You know I loved Myrcella and Tommen. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. If the child was stillborn, this will have all been in vain.”

“I know that, but I have to try.”

“Very well.” Tyrion stood up and pushed his chair back in. “I’m leaving for the Eyrie in a few hours. The king and queen asked Sansa to recruit Robin Arryn to our cause. We need him if we’re going to keep the Knights of the Vale.”

“They asked you to go with her?”

“I volunteered.”

“Hmm.” Jaime was tempted to ask Tyrion why exactly he was so determined to go back to the place where he’d almost been murdered to help his ex-wife with her bratty cousin, but he had a feeling he already knew. He thought about making a joke about when Tyrion had acquired such a fondness for redheads, but he did not have the spirits to do so. “Well, good luck with that. Don’t get pushed out a moon door.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Jaime got up from his chair as well and he knelt down to pull Tyrion in for a quick hug. “May we meet again.”

He could practically feel Tyrion’s smirk. “We will. Brother, don’t you know by now that I’m very hard to kill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Theon, Sansa, Tyrion, Jon.


	4. When Starks Go South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Greyjoys meet with the Sand Snakes; Sansa tries to make an alliance at the Vale; Tyrion has a bad feeling; Jon and Daenerys discuss history.

**THEON**

They dropped Sansa and Lord Tyrion off at Gulltown with a small retinue, then paid to switch ships. Once on board a plain, unmarked merchant vessel, they sailed down towards Dorne. The seas were smoother the further south they went – it was colder and windier than usual, but there was no snow and ice like there was in the North.

“What’s it like in Dorne?” Asher asked one night. Theon had originally intended to leave his son behind at Winterfell for his own safety (and Theon's peace of mind), but Asher had begged to come with him and Yara, and Theon had been unable to refuse him. Asher was half-Ironborn anyway, and Theon supposed it would be good to show him what life was like on a ship.

“I don’t know,” Theon answered. “I’ve never been either. But I hear they have sun and sand, and groves of fruit trees as far as the eye can see.”

“We had fruit trees in the Reach too!” Asher said excitedly. “Apples and peaches and cherries…”

“Well in Dorne they have oranges and pomegranates and coconuts. We’ll have to try them all, hmm? Now go to sleep, we should hit land tomorrow.”

Asher grinned at him from his own sleeping bunk. “Night Father.”

“Goodnight Asher.” It was only when Theon rolled over and tried to sleep that he realized that was the first time Asher had ever called him “Father”.  

When they docked near Sunspear, there was a litter to take them the three leagues to the Water Gardens, but there was no sign of any Sand Snakes. They were carried over paths of pale pink marble to the palace, a cool breeze coming off of the sea. When Theon, Yara and Asher disembarked, they were now inside the palace’s courtyard, filled with palm trees and green shrubbery. Terraces overlooked fountains and rippling pools. Children high and lowborn alike ran past them, shrieking for joy as they chased each other, and Theon saw a preteen boy knocking blood oranges off of trees with a morningstar. Some of the fruits were overripe and splattered against the ground, red juices dripping across marble.

A castellan appeared seemingly out of nowhere to escort them inside. “Follow me. The Princess of Dorne will have an audience with you.”

The castellan led them to a first floor room through the terrace, where a breeze was blowing through. Theon heard some faint sounds of shouting, though they were not the shouts of children. The castellan stepped in first and cleared his throat. “Princess, the Greyjoys are here.”

Theon stepped into the room, but immediately froze. On the floor there was a bed of blankets and pillows – and a group of naked people. Bodies of men and women alike writhed in their various states of pleasure. Theon heard Asher’s sharp intake of breath and immediately clamped a hand over the boy’s eyes.

There was a young woman in the midst of it all – probably about nineteen or twenty years of age – who was being kissed on the neck by another female, while a man was pleasuring her with his mouth. The young woman opened one of her black eyes and smiled. “Tell our friends I’ll be right there. I have to finish first…”

She arched her back and moaned in ecstasy, and Theon adjusted his hold over Asher’s eyes so he could cover his ears too.

Once she’d climaxed, the young woman got up and padded naked across the room. The Princess of Dorne looked like her late father, Oberyn – at least Theon thought she did, for she matched the description of the man, though Theon had never met him. She had black hair pulled into a mussed braid and a tall, slender, graceful body, with perfect tanned skin. Though she had small breasts and an even smaller butt, there was something in the way she carried herself that was sexy, confident – she was beautiful, and she knew it.

The princess slipped a robe over her nakedness and gestured for her… _friends_ to arise. “That will be all, my dears.” They all arose to go except for one man, the same who’d had his face between her legs a few moments ago. He was pale with freckles, lush blond hair and thick eyebrows, identifying him as a stony Dornishman. He rolled over onto his back and Theon’s eyes widened as the man made no attempts to hide his large, erect cock. Next to him, Yara was watching with an amused look on her face.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” The princess said. “I am Elia Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell and Princess of Dorne. This is my intended, Dickon of House Manwoody.”

Theon could see that Yara was biting back a smile at the man’s well-fitting name, and Theon discreetly elbowed her in the ribs. “Pleasure.” He forced himself to say. “I am Theon Greyjoy – this is my son Asher, and my sister Yara, Queen of the Iron Islands.”

“I have never fucked a queen before.” Dickon Manwoody said. “Or a prince either…”

Elia scowled and picked up a blanket, which she threw at him. “My love,” She hissed. “Don’t be rude. I told you that the Prince of the Iron Islands has no cock, and his poor sister no tongue!”

Dickon Manwoody frowned and covered his appendage. “That’s a shame – I’ve heard you were wild in your time, Theon Greyjoy. I like a man who knows what he’s doing.”

“Aye,” The princess laughed. “And I like a strong tongue on a woman. It is a pity the four of us did not meet a few years ago.”

“It would’ve been a different story then, certainly.” Theon said. “But, Your Grace, do you mind if we move on to the purpose of our visit?”

Elia Sand nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. You can take your hands off the boy’s eyes now, Dickon will be leaving.” Reluctantly her lover stood up, tied the blanket around his waist, and kissed her one more time. On his way out, Dickon Manwoody winked at Theon and gave Yara a slap on the rear, which made her jump in surprise.

Elia Sand laughed. “Forgive my intended.” She said. “He is a good lover, but knows nothing of politics. Luckily I am not bedding him for his brains…” She sat down in an ornate chair and picked up a small bell from the side table, ringing it several times. “Obella! Dorea! Loreza! Come, meet our guests!”

Theon turned to look over his shoulder as three girls appeared. Obella looked to be about eighteen years old, and she was perhaps even more beautiful than her elder sister. Her thick dark hair hung loose and her body was curvier than Elia’s, her orange dress hugging her in all the right places. Theon realized that the boy he’d seen with the morningstar earlier was actually not a boy at all, but Dorea Sand – about fourteen, she was dressed in men’s breeches and a dirty, untucked tunic, and her black hair had been chopped short. It was very uneven, like she’d done it herself with a crude instrument.

But when the third girl walked into the room, little Asher’s eyes immediately went wide as saucers. Loreza, the youngest of all the Sand Snakes, looked to be about twelve years old. She was wearing a beautiful yellow dress that looked perfect against her suntanned skin, her curly black hair was tucked behind her ears, and her pale pink lips formed a small smile. One of the blood oranges had rolled over by her feet and Loreza picked it up, tossing it at Asher. “Here, catch.”

Asher was too distracted to react at first until Theon nudged him, and he barely caught the orange before it hit the ground again. All four of the Sand Snakes laughed at that – Elia, Obella and Dorea had loud, boisterous laughs, but Loreza’s was trilling and sweet. Asher’s face turned almost as dark red as the orange’s juices.

“I’ve never met an Iron Islander before.” Obella said with a twinkle in her eye as the other Sand Snakes moved towards their elder sister. Dorea and Loreza sat by Elia’s feet – Loreza with her legs tucked under her body, Dorea with hers splayed – and Obella stood behind her chair. “I’ve been told that you’re all a bunch of savages.”

Theon cleared his throat. “Well…some people say the same things about you.”

No one said anything for a moment and Theon silently chastised himself for saying such a stupid thing, but then all the Sand Snakes laughed again. “Well,” Elia said. “We Dornish know what we want. We fight and we fuck, and if people call us savages for it, so be it. I take it that’s something we have in common with you Iron Islanders.” She winked at Yara.

Yara grabbed Theon’s hand and traced a message on his palm. _I like this woman._ Theon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Was he the only one here not susceptible to these girls’ charms?  

Little Loreza turned her dark eyes back onto Asher. “Forgive my rudeness, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Princess Loreza Sand, last daughter of Oberyn Martell. Who might you be?”

Asher was peeling his orange with his fingers, and pieces of the rind fell by his feet curling like tiny snakes. “I am Asher of House Greyjoy, son of Prince Theon Greyjoy, and nephew to Queen Yara Greyjoy. I’m a prince, just as you are a princess.” Yara gave the boy a proud smile.

Loreza smiled too. “Indeed you are.”  

Elia nodded at Theon. “Last I’d heard the boy’s name was Asher Flowers. He is your bastard, yes?”

“He was legitimized by Queen Yara’s decree.” Theon said defensively. “But yes, his mother and I were never married.”

Elia held up her hand. “I did not mean to offend you. I apologize if I have done so. My sisters and I are all bastards too – we still wear the Sand name not because we are forced to, but because we are proud of where we came from. There is no shame in it. And bastards can rise very high in the world these days, isn’t that right sisters?”

“Indeed.” Obella said, while Dorea gave a little cry of “right” and Loreza only nodded her head.

Elia looked at Yara now. “I’ve also heard that you are the first woman to ever lead the Ironborn. Congratulations, that is a great accomplishment. Of course here in Dorne we’ve had female ladies and princesses for years, but I know the other kingdoms are not as forward-thinking…though that’s not what you’re here today to discuss, I take it?”

Theon cleared his throat. “Not that long ago, our two great houses were allies. Your mother Ellaria Sand promised the Martell forces to the cause of Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Well, now Ellaria is dead, murdered by Cersei Lannister, but Queen Daenerys is not going to give up, and she and her husband King Jon – ”

“Jon who?” Dorea interrupted.

“Jon Targaryen.” Obella said.

Dorea frowned and glared up at Obella. “There is no Jon Targaryen.”

“They once called him Jon Snow.” Elia corrected. “He grew up a bastard just like us. See how far bastards can rise, my sweet?”

Of course Jon was never really a bastard, but Theon was not going to correct her. “King Jon and Queen Daenerys are going to take back the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. They wanted our three great houses to join together once more, and if you agree to resurrect our old alliance, Queen Daenerys promises you your heart’s desire.”

A smirk came to Elia’s face and she reached to the side table to pour herself a cup of wine from the decanter. She took a long sip, then passed the cup off to Obella, all without breaking eye contact with Theon. “And what is my heart’s desire, Theon Greyjoy?”

“Vengeance.” He said. “Fire and blood. Justice for your murdered mother and sisters.”

Obella giggled into the wine cup, but Elia smiled, only smiled. “Let me tell you something, Theon Greyjoy.” She said, leaning forward in her chair. “I loved my mother and my half-sisters, and I would have taken a knife to the heart for them if it would’ve saved their lives. But they were wrong to seek vengeance as they did. It’s a circle, you see. My father wanted revenge for my aunt Elia. He died in the attempt. My mother, Obara, Nym and Tyene wanted revenge for our father. Now they are all dead. Suppose that Obella and I decide to seek vengeance for them – what happens then if we die? Should Dorea and Loree seek to avenge us too? They are only girls. Where does the circle end, I ask you? Well, I intend for it to end with me. Fire and blood is not my heart’s desire. My heart’s desire is peace for Dorne.”

This was not the answer Theon had been expecting and from the look on Yara’s face, she had not either. He quickly tried to come up with another tactic. “King Jon and Queen Daenerys have two dragons. They will take back the Iron Throne from Cersei – if you align with them, it will be a safe investment.”

“They once had three dragons.” Elia retorted. “Dragons can be killed. And if you are so certain of their success, why do you need my help?”

“Perhaps they could make it worth your while. Maybe they could…” He thought about it. _What can I promise her?_ He was not the Hand, and he had no bargaining power here. “Arrange advantageous betrothals for your sisters.”

Elia laughed. “I am set to marry Dickon Manwoody next year. My sister Obella’s betrothal to Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall will be finalized any day now. As for Dorea and Loreza, there are plenty of men who already want them for their sons – and not just here in Dorne, for the Archon of Tyrosh desires Dorea for one of his sons, and I daresay the Sealord of Braavos would do anything to have Loree for his boy. Men from far and wide sing songs of our beauty. We do not need the dragons to find husbands for us. We saw where that got us last time. Now what else do you want to promise me, Prince Theon of House Greyjoy?”

Theon opened his mouth, but came up empty. He secretly hoped that Yara would grab his hand to silently communicate another idea, but she also had nothing.

Princess Elia did not give him a chance to think any further. She picked up the bell again and rang for the castellan, who appeared from the adjoining room almost instantly. “Escort our friends from the Iron Islands to their rooms, and have them brought some food for supper and water for hot baths. I’m sure they’re very tired after their long journey.”

The man nodded. “Right away, Princess.”

Elia smiled at Theon and Yara and rose from her chair. “You must sup with us tomorrow evening. It would truly be a shame if you came all this way for nothing. Let us fill you with some real Dornish food at least. Come, Obella.” Her sister laced her arm through Elia’s and the two of them disappeared through a silk curtain into an adjoining room.

Dorea stood up and grabbed her morningstar, yanking Loreza to her feet. “Let’s go, Loree. All this talk is boring me. I want to go on a horseback ride before it gets too dark.” She brushed past the Greyjoys and back out into the courtyard.

Loreza smiled at Asher before she turned to follow Dorea. “I’ll see you around maybe.”

While Theon felt overcame by a wave of defeat, Asher watched Loreza saunter off with her sister, his eyes wide and full of wonder. “I’m going to marry her.” He proclaimed confidently, as sure of himself as if he’d just said that the sky was blue or birds could fly. Based on the look on her face, Yara would’ve laughed, had she been able.

 _Of course,_ Theon thought to himself. _My son has to go and fall in love with a fucking Sand Snake on our first day in Dorne…_ Could this get any worse?

He knelt down and wrapped an arm around Asher’s shoulders. “You’d be best to forget her.” He advised Asher in a hushed voice. “She is seven years your elder, and a princess of Dorne. You’ll only break your own heart, thinking thoughts like that.”

Asher only smiled and bit into his orange, dribbling juice onto his chin.

* * *

**SANSA**

With the onset of winter, Robin Arryn’s court had moved from the Eyrie down to the Gates of the Moon. The Gates of the Moon was the first seat of House Arryn back when they were still Kings of Mountain and Vale, Septa Mordane had taught Sansa when she was a child. It was a large, stout castle, bigger than the Eyrie, and livelier too in Sansa’s opinion. They arrived from Gulltown just as evening descended – Sansa had Tyrion with her, as well as a lady’s maid and a few household knights from Winterfell. As they approached she could see the moon reflected in the waters of the moat.

Sansa was secretly glad they were not at the Eyrie. The last time she’d been there had been with Lord Baelish, before he’d sold her in marriage to Ramsay Bolton. And she certainly did not want to think about how terrified she’d been when Aunt Lysa held her over the moon door, threatening to throw her down the shaft. “Are you nervous?” She asked Lord Tyrion. After all, he’d almost died here too.

Tyrion shook his head. “Not at all.” He said, but Sansa noticed he could not make eye contact with her. She suspected he was not happy to be here either. But Sansa squared her shoulders and took a deep breath as the drawbridge granted them access.

They rode into the courtyard and descended their horses. Several servants came out to help them, including a young woman in her early twenties who took Sansa and Tyrion’s cloaks. “Thank you.” Sansa said. She met the young woman’s eyes, which were a startling blue. Something about them was very familiar. “Do I know you?”

The young woman bowed her head. “I didn’t expect you to remember me m’lady. I helped you and Lord Arryn descend from the Eyrie when you left with Lord Baelish.” She peeked up at Sansa, blue eyes shaded by her eyelashes. Sansa thought she could be pretty, though she was not exactly dressed like a lady – she had on a pair of trousers instead of a dress and her black hair was short, curling around her ears. “Is it true that he’s dead?”

Sansa gulped. “My sister slit his throat.”

The young woman stared at Sansa for a moment, and then she broke out into a grin. “Good. I never liked him.” Reluctantly Sansa smiled too and laughed.

“Mya!” A voice chastised. A busty, dark-haired woman in a purple dress was approaching them. “Stop your chatting and go tell Lord Arryn that his guests have arrived!” Mya’s complete demeanor changed at the woman’s appearance and her smile fell, her blue eyes turning nervous. She scuttered off with only a mumbling of “yes, m’lady”.

Tyrion glanced at Sansa. He’d been silent until now. “You know who she is, don’t you?”

“What do you mean, who she is? She works here. She tends to the mules.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Tyrion said. “Don’t you see? I knew she had the look the moment I laid eyes on her, same as your future goodbrother…”

“What does she have to do with Gen– ” Sansa cut herself off. _Oh._ Black hair, blue eyes, on the taller side…was she understanding Tyrion right? Before she could ask him, they were interrupted by the busty highborn woman walking over to them.

“Lady Stark.” She said genially. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Myranda Royce, it’s been a long time since we last saw each other.”

“Of course I remember you, my lady.” Sansa had met Lady Myranda back when Littlefinger first brought her here too. She was a member of a cadet branch of House Royce, and her father Lord Nestor was in charge of the Gates of the Moon. Sansa had always thought she was a nice woman, even if she was a bit of a gossip. “This is Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand to the King and Queen.”

Tyrion nodded his head. “Pleasure.”

“Welcome to the Gates of the Moon. Oh, I hope the girl didn’t bother you with her problems.”

“Not at all.” Sansa said. “She was perfectly cordial. What exactly do you mean by 'problems'?”

Myranda looked both ways to make sure no one else was listening, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “You’ll have to excuse Mya, she really is a good girl usually. She gave her maidenhead to a handsome, young Ser Mychel. Thought he was going to marry her and everything, until his father ordered him to marry a highborn – not that he would’ve ever wed a bastard like her in the first place. Now she’s alone while her old flame just squirted a babe into his wife’s belly, happy as can be. And the wife is a lovely little lady too, it’s impossible to hate her. Mya’s been sulking around here miserable ever since.” Lady Myranda chuckled. “Men. It’s things like this that make me glad my husband had the decency to die when he did.” She gestured for Sansa and Tyrion to follow her into the High Hall. “Shall we?”

The High Hall had vaulted ceilings and the walls were painted blue, with stars and a moon painted on the ceiling. There was no weirwood throne like at the Eyrie, but Robin Arryn was sitting on the dais, various lords and ladies of the Vale standing before him. “Cousin Sansa,” Lord Arryn said. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you here to return my knights to me?”

Sansa shook her head. “No, my lord.”

Robin Arryn was taller than when she’d seen him last and his shaggy brown hair had been cut, though he was still rather scrawny for a sixteen-year-old boy. “The Knights of the Vale are pledged to _me_. I let you have them to battle the Army of the Dead because Lord Royce suggested it, but now I want them back. _I_ am Defender of the Vale!”

This was going to be more difficult than Sansa had hoped, though she’d been expecting this much. “My lord – ”

“And,” Her cousin interrupted her. “You bring that – ” He jabbed a finger in Tyrion’s direction. “ – bad man with you! Do you mock me, cousin?”

 _No matter how much he has grown,_ Sansa thought. _He is still a little boy who likes to get his way._ “Never, cousin. Lord Tyrion is Hand to the rightful King and Queen of Westeros, Jon and Daenerys Targaryen. I have brought him here because Their Graces know that you, Lord Arryn, would make a powerful ally to have in the war still to come. We’ve come to ask humbly for your help.”

Sansa hoped that a little flattery would calm him down and Robin leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “And what do you need me for?”

“We’d like to keep the Knights of the Vale with us so we can march south and take the Iron Throne from the pretender Cersei Lannister.”

Robin mulled over it in silence for a moment. “The Lannisters are not a trustworthy lot, that is true.” He said. “But we were already generous enough to help you in your time of need not once, but twice. We lost Lord Yohn Royce and many other good men. And what did it get us?”

Sansa glowered. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Lord Arryn,” Tyrion said. “If I may…the great houses of Stark and Arryn are two of the most ancient and noble families in the Seven Kingdoms, and they’ve been allies for many years. Lady Stark is your own flesh and blood. She highly values you and will not forget your generosity. We know we’ve asked so much of you, but should you be kind enough to help us again, we’ll make it up to you. I am the Hand – if there is anything you would like from our king and queen, I would advocate for your interests.”   

“There is nothing I want from you, Imp.” The little lord said. “I have everything I could ever need right here. Why does it matter to me who sits the Iron Throne? I don’t owe anything to any of you.”

“My lord,” A male voice called out. A young lord who looked to be in his mid to late twenties stepped forward. “My father died fighting the Army of the Dead for Lady Stark. He wrote to me saying he admired her for how she handled the late Lord Baelish’s crimes against both the Vale and the North. I think he would want us to help her.”

Robin Arryn nodded at Sansa. “Cousin, this is Andar Royce, Lord of Runestone.”

Sansa smiled at the new Lord Royce. Though not striking handsome, Lord Andar was tall with dark brown hair and slate-grey eyes. Next to him was a woman of about twenty, with coppery blonde curls, blue eyes and lovely high cheekbones. She was short and petite – save for her rounded belly, indicative of a second trimester pregnancy – and wore a gown of red and white.

“It is an honor to meet you, Lord Royce.” Sansa said. “Your father was…quite a man. You have a lovely wife.”

At her words, Andar and the woman stared at her for a long moment, then laughed. “Forgive me, Lady Stark,” Lord Royce said. “But I am not married. Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Ysilla Royce, wife to Ser Mychel of House Redfort.”

Ysilla curtsied. “Pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark.”

Mychel – that was the name of Mya’s old flame. Sansa suspected Ysilla Royce was the woman Lady Myranda had described. “I apologize for my error my lord, my lady.”

“It is quite all right.” Andar Royce replied. “I know my sister and I do not look much alike – Ysilla favors our mother.”

“I have to agree with my brother, my lord.” Lady Ysilla said to Lord Arryn. “I think my late father would want us to help Lady Stark, but of course he would respect your authority to issue whatever judgment you deem correct.”

In truth Lord Royce hadn’t admired Sansa all that much by the end, but if they were going to help her, Sansa would not complain.

Sweetrobin was silent for a long moment. “You’re lucky that I bear such great love for my family, cousin.” He said. “I will help you – but there is something I want in return. Not a demand, just a…a _request_. I know there was once a time when my mother, Gods rest her soul, hoped that someday you and I should be joined in matrimony.”

Sansa’s stomach did a flip and next to her, Tyrion squared his jaw. “Lord Arryn,” He said. “I do not think this is the time – ”

“Allow me to finish. My mother once wished for you and I to be joined in matrimony, Lady Stark, but I know now that is impossible. You are Wardeness of the North, and I have duties here in the Vale. But there will come a day when both of us will have to marry and produce heirs for our houses, so allow me to present a most worthy candidate for your hand. Ser Harrold?”

A young, handsome man stepped forth. Dressed in blue and silver, he had blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and a body hard with muscle. When his eyes met Sansa’s he smiled, exposing dimples in his cheeks. “Ser Harrold Hardyng,” He said, bowing. “At your service, my lady.”

“Ser Harrold is a distant cousin of mine, and shall be heir to the Vale until I can produce a son of my own.” Robin Arryn explained. “He is a good man, strong and a proven commander. Every woman in the Vale would do anything to be the wife of such a man. I will not force you to marry Ser Harrold, my dear cousin, but he shall lead the Knights of the Vale in my stead. During these next few months, I’d like you to get to know him and consider Ser Harrold as a potential husband for you. I know he would love you and treat you well. This is all I ask of you. Do we have an understanding?”

Sansa tried to keep her expression composed. There was a time when she would’ve fawned over a man like Ser Harrold Hardyng, given anything to marry such a handsome knight. Now though the thought of marrying again only made her feel sick – it was necessary for the survival of House Stark, of course, but she did not want to sell herself for a political alliance again. She did not know if she could bear it. She glanced at Tyrion and saw he was staring at her, looking visibly displeased. _He doesn’t want me to marry him either._

But Jon and Daenerys needed the Knights of the Vale. _If we have the Arryns behind us, we can defeat Cersei._ Could Sansa really let Cersei win just for the sake of her own pride? _And Robin’s offer is not a demand, I don’t have to agree to marry him…at least, not yet…_

She swallowed. “We do, my lord.”

* * *

**TYRION**

Lord Arryn invited them to sup. As much as Tyrion wanted to dine in private, he knew this was an offer they could not refuse. They were escorted to the table and Sansa was yanked away to sit next to Harry the Heir, while Tyrion was stuffed between Lord Royce and Lady Ysilla. Robin Arryn sat on the other side of Sansa, at the head of the table.

Servants brought out steaming trays of capon stuffed with chestnuts and goose drowning in plum sauce. Tyrion hated chestnuts and the plum sauce was sickeningly sweet, but he forced himself to eat. At least the wine was good. When a serving girl came around to refill everyone’s cups about halfway through the meal, Harrold Hardying winked at her. “Good job, sweetling.” He said, giving her a smack on the rear when Sansa was not looking. But Tyrion was looking, and when Ser Harrold saw that he’d been caught he only laughed and popped a chestnut into his mouth.

“I thank you for your generosity, my lord.” Sansa was saying to Robin Arryn. She was playing the part of a gracious lady perfectly, but Tyrion would’ve given anything to know what she was really thinking. “I swear by the old gods and new, I shall never forget the kindness you’ve shown me, my cousin.”

“Ser Harrold will lead the Knights of the Vale well.” Sweetrobin replied. “You can thank me by thinking about my offer. It would mean a lot to me to see the North and the Vale joined in a marriage alliance.” Sansa blushed and took a sip of her wine.

A thought came to Tyrion’s mind. “Can we take Mya Stone with us as well?” He’d identified the young woman as Robert Baratheon’s bastard the moment he laid eyes on her. Tyrion remembered that Robert had a bastard in the Vale he once wanted to bring to court, but Cersei had raged and made threats, and Robert gave up on the idea. He’d assumed the girl died in the massacre Joffrey ordered, but evidently not. _I’m sure she doesn’t want to stay here and watch her old lover with his new wife and future child, and Gendry Baratheon may like to know he has a half-sister still in this world._ Though from Tyrion’s experience sisters were overrated, he thought the young man might be made happy by the knowledge.

Robin Arryn shrugged at the request. “I don’t know what you want her for, but all right.”

“Perhaps Lord Tyrion is looking for a new whore.” Harrold Hardyng suggested. “I know he’s fond of those, and I hear the girl’s giving it away.” Across the table, Ysilla Royce’s cheeks turned red – Tyrion wondered if he knew her husband was the one who had taken Mya’s virginity.

Robin Arryn waved his hand. “The girl is none of my concern. I’ll tell her to go with you. Employ her, make her your whore, it matters not to me.”

“Or wed her.” Harrold Hardyng said. “I hear Lord Tyrion has a… _fondness_ for women like her. Pretty, dark-haired whores…”

Immediately, Tyrion gripped his knife tightly in his hand. He knew what Harrold Hardyng was alluding to. _Do_ not _presume to speak of Tysha._ He suddenly wanted to drive that knife into Harrold Hardyng’s neck, but he knew he could not, and released his grip. He tried to pay Hardyng no more mind and forced himself to appear grateful to Lord Arryn. “Thank you, my lord.”  

Sansa’s attention was diverted as Harrold Hardyng asked her if she’d ever been hawking, and when Sansa responded in the negative, he said she must accompany him sometime. Tyrion wanted to come to her aid, to make up some excuse as to why she could not, but he was pulled into conversation with the Royce siblings. “So what are the Targaryens like, Lord Tyrion?” Lord Andar asked. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them.”

“They’re quite a team.” Tyrion replied. “Queen Daenerys is fierce and determined, King Jon is honorable and austere. I wouldn’t be serving them if I didn’t think they’d make this world a better place.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when two women were fighting to become Queen.” Lady Ysilla said. “It’s so exciting, the things a woman can do now.”

Tyrion glanced to the other side of the table and then lowered his voice. “What is he like? Ser Harrold Hardyng?”

Andar Royce chewed long and hard on a particularly fatty piece of goose before responding. “I’ve met him several times before. He’s a good man at heart, really. He just as has a…let’s say, a weakness for women. He fathered a bastard upon some poor girl two years ago.”

“Already?” Harrold Hardying seemed young to have already sired an illegitimate child, but then again Robert must’ve impregnated Mya Stone’s mother when he was only a teenager…

“Aye.” Andar Royce replied. “And I think there’s some merchant’s daughter in Gulltown he got in the family way…Perhaps I’ve said too much. Ser Harrold may not be the most chaste man I’ve ever met, and sometimes he doesn’t know how to watch his mouth, but perhaps marriage could change his ways, and I’ve never known him to be a cruel person. He would never raise a hand to anyone, and unfortunately there’s many men you can’t say that for these days.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “Indeed.”

The rest of the meal passed in unbearable small talk and uncomfortable silences.

After they’d eaten, Tyrion and Sansa were both escorted upstairs to bedchambers at separate ends of the castle. Tyrion was shown into a cramped chamber that was more like an alcove than a room, with a small bed, a window staring out at the mountainside, and a single candle burning in the sill. He shed the outer layers of his clothing and helped himself to another glass of wine, hoping for rest, but he knew he would not be able to sleep. His mind was buzzing. Finally, Tyrion got up and slipped quietly from his chamber. He needed to talk to Sansa.

He knocked on the door and heard Sansa’s voice faintly call for him to come in. Her chamber was much more spacious, with a four poster bed, desk, wardrobe, two windows, and a vanity. Sansa was sitting at the latter in her nightgown and robe, her lady’s maid brushing through her hair when Tyrion entered. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Not at all.” Sansa turned to her maid. “Melony, may I have a moment alone with the Hand please? Thank you.” The woman seemed unsure about leaving Sansa alone with him, but complied.

“So,” Tyrion asked, sitting down in a chair. “What do you think of him?”

“Of Ser Harrold?” Sansa said, continuing to brush her hair on her own. “He is…a man.”

“He is a complete and utter cad. Did you know that he fathered a bastard upon a serving girl, and now has another on the way?”

“Many men have bastards, I’m afraid.” Sansa said. “It’s not uncommon.”

“Yes, but…do you really want to marry someone like that?”

Sansa sighed, and put down her hairbrush. “To be completely honest, at this moment I don’t want to marry anyone. I know someday I’ll have to, but I’m just…I’m just not ready to go through that again. Not yet.”

Tyrion thought of Joffrey and Ramsay Bolton, and he quickly tried to push the thought from his mind. He did not want to think about what they did to her. _I tried my best to keep her safe from Joffrey,_ He thought. _I wish I had been there to protect her from the Bolton bastard too…I would’ve let him flay me alive before I let him touch her._ “After what you’ve been through I would not blame you for never marrying again. And you certainly don’t owe it to anyone to marry for an alliance. All Robin Arryn asked was that you consider Harrold Hardyng as an option, so consider it, and then do what you think is right. I trust your judgment.” _But please, please,_ He added silently. _Don’t decide to marry that man._

Sansa nodded. “You’re right. When I marry again – _if_ I marry again…this time, it will be for me. No one else.”

* * *

**JON**

“Four of Lord Manderly’s longships have been sunk in a storm, a majority of Lord Cerwyn’s men have come down with a pox, and some of the hill clans have a feud they’ve asked you to settle, Your Grace.”

Jon sighed as Davos talked him through another’s day worth of raven scrolls. “Write to Lord Manderly to keep the rest of his ships at White Harbor until the seas look better, to Lord Cerwyn telling him to make sure his men stay away from whores, and to the hill clans telling them I’ll settle their argument once this war is over. Then bring them to me to sign.”

Davos nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. Anything else?”

“Have there been any letters from Dorne or the Vale?”

“None yet, Your Grace.”

“Very well. Thank you, Ser Davos.” Enough time had passed that Jon assumed the Greyjoys, his sister and Lord Tyrion had made it to their respective destinations, and he knew Daenerys was anxious for word on if the Sand Snakes or Lord Arryn could be persuaded to help them. Who was he kidding – Jon was anxious too. There was so much riding on this, and he would’ve at least liked a word from Sansa letting him know she was safe.

After he left Ser Davos, he went out into the courtyard in search of his family. It had been snowing for days, but today it had slowed down enough that you could actually be outside without being drenched, and the ground wasn’t icy. “Jon!” Arya yelled, walking up to her brother with her hands on her hips, her sword sheathed at her waist, and an annoyed look on her face. “Make Gendry fight me!”

Jon frowned. “Come again?”

“I want him to spar with me but he won’t do it! You’re the king, tell him he has to fight me!”

From where she was sitting, Daenerys couldn’t help but chuckle, meanwhile Gendry was in the midst of cleaning his hammer. “I’m not fighting you when you just have that little thing.” He said, nodding at Needle.

Arya spun around to glare at her intended. “That little thing? You’ve seen what I can with _that little thing._ Or do you want me to poke you full of holes and remind you?”

“No one’s questioning your ability, m’lady.” Gendry said cheekily. “But it’s too small. I could snap it in half easily if I wanted to.”

“Like you’d ever get the chance.” Arya shot back.

Gendry finished cleaning his hammer and tossed it from one hand to another, as if it were weightless. “Don’t you know how strong I am?”

Arya raised her chin indignantly and crossed her arms. “Don’t you know how quick I am?”

The two held each other’s gazes for a long moment, each refusing to look away, until finally Gendry sighed and stood up. “Fine, you win. But I’m not going easy on you.”

A wide grin broke out on Arya’s face. “You better not.” She said, practically skipping as she followed Gendry to the practice yard.

With a shake of his head, Jon moved to sit down by his wife. Daenerys was wrapped in a fur, Ghost asleep by her feet, and Ser Jorah standing guard. “Nice white cloak.” Jon told him.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Isn’t it perfect?” Daenerys said. “I had it made special. It was only fitting for the Lord Commander of our Crownsguard.” She frowned down at the needlework in her hands. “Good thing I didn’t make it, because I’m quickly coming to the realization that I don’t know how to sew.”

Jon looked at the indistinguishable lump of white fabric. “What is it supposed to be, exactly?”

“Socks. Though I think I forgot the hole…”

“Luckily I did not marry you for your sewing abilities.”   

Daenerys smiled and pushed the work aside. “I much prefer politics to domestic duties. Has there been word from Sansa and Tyrion, or the Greyjoys?”

“None. They should have arrived by now, but perhaps they’re still getting settled in.”

Daenerys glanced over at the practice yard, and Jon saw that Arya was now circling Gendry, goading him to swipe at her. “Place your bets.” Daenerys said.

“I like Gendry and everything,” Jon said. “But I’d bet my money on my little sister any time.”

“Fine, then I’ll take Gendry’s side. He is my cousin after all.”

“Even if he can beat her, he’ll let her win if he knows what’s good for him. Happy wife, happy life, as they say.”

Daenerys beamed. “You’re a smart man, Jon Snow.”

They sat there in silence for several moments. Jon watched Arya as she gracefully deflected and twirled her sword in her hand, but his mind could not stray far from the war effort. He had raven scrolls to sign, soldiers to rally, things to check up on. _Sansa,_ He thought with anxiety. _Please write soon. Tyrion, Theon, anyone._

Evidently his troubles were etched on his face, as Daenerys leaned forward in her chair and placed a hand on his knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” But Daenerys saw through his lie, one of her silver eyebrows arching in disbelief.

“You are not a good liar, my love.”

Jon sighed. “I’m anxious for this march, that’s all. We need more allies, time is of the essence, and I want to keep my family safe when I know I can’t.” Part of him wanted to stay in Winterfell forever, to bar the gates and live blissfully out the rest of his days with his family. Sansa could return and rule as lady, Arya and Gendry could spar in the courtyard as much as they wanted, and he and Daenerys could raise their children here. But it was a foolish fantasy, and if they did not act first Cersei Lannister would come for them, bring her armies and barrel down their doors, slaughtering them as her father’s men once slaughtered the royal family. _Elia Martell and her children. My half-brother and sister…_ No, Winterfell could only provide them temporary safety. “And historically speaking…good things don’t happen when Starks go south.”

“What do you mean?” Daenerys asked.

“My grandfather and uncle were murdered by Aerys, Rickard burned alive and Brandon strangled. The Brandon Stark who ruled during the reign of King Jaehaerys I became deathly ill during the Golden Wedding and died the very day he returned home. My father lost his head in King’s Landing, and my brother Robb was murdered at a wedding in the Riverlands.”

Daenerys was silent for a moment. “Ser Jorah?” She said, without looking away from Jon’s face. “Refresh my memory about Cregan Stark, if you will.”

“Cregan Stark was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North during the reigns of the kings Viserys I, Aegon II, Aegon III, and Daeron I, Your Grace. After the Dance of Dragons he came south and reigned as Hand of the King for Aegon III for but a day, during which he oversaw the trials and punishments for those implicated in the murder of Aegon II. Ser Gyles Belgrave and Ser Larys Strong chose death over joining the Night’s Watch, and Lord Cregan allowed the king’s pardon of Corlys Velaryon to stand in exchange for Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage. The one day he reigned as Hand became known as the Hour of the Wolf, and then he returned safely home where he lived for many more years, Your Grace.”

“See?” Daenerys said. “Some Starks do well in the south.” Seeing that Jon was still not convinced, she leaned forward and took his face in her hands. “And luckily you’re a Targaryen, not a Stark.”

“No,” Jon said. “I’m both.” His blood may have been Targaryen, but he was raised in Winterfell, learned the northern customs and way of life, learned lessons from Lord Eddard, who was always going to be his father in his heart. Neither part of him could be disregarded.  

Daenerys smiled. “Even better. You, my love, can bridge the north and the south. You’re what this realm needs: ice and fire both.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Ser Davos. “Pardon the interruption Your Graces,” He said. “But I thought you should be alerted at once. There’s a letter from the Vale, with Lady Stark’s seal.”

Immediately Jon took the scroll from him and broke the seal, Daenerys leaning forward eagerly in anticipation as Jon’s eyes scanned the page. It was Sansa’s hand all right, and the message was short.

_Brother,_

_Lord Arryn has agreed to let us keep the Knights of the Vale. Lord Tyrion and I will return to Winterfell eminently accompanied by Ser Harrold Hardyng, the leader of the Knights of the Vale, and a girl named Mya Stone. I will explain all when I return._

_With all my love,_

_Your beloved sister Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North_

Jon exhaled in relief. “Sansa says that Robin Arryn has agreed to an alliance.”

“That’s wonderful news.” When he looked up at Daenerys again, she was beaming. “We are going to make great things happen together, Jon. I can feel it in my bones. I’ve seen it in my dreams. We’re going to break the wheel – _together_ , as it should be.”

Hesitantly, Jon cracked a smile. “And I know better than to question Daenerys Stormborn’s dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: I'm planning to introduce some POVs that I've personally never seen used in a fanfic before. They're not going to have as many chapters as the other characters, but I want to give it a try. You're also going to get a Gendry POV and a Brienne POV. Until next time! Comments always inspire and help.


	5. On the Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon and Yara meet an unexpected guest in Dorne; Gilly makes a potentially life-changing revelation; Gendry meets a family member; Brienne discovers a secret of Jaime's.

**YARA**

For dinner the next night, the three of them were escorted into an open room with marble floors and a ceiling of multi-colored tile, which looked out onto a courtyard. The fountain was not on and a chilly breeze was passing through, but somewhere birds were chirping and flowers still bloomed in their beds. This was probably the coldest it ever got it Dorne, and it was warmer than the Iron Islands in springtime.

The Sand Snakes did not seem bothered by the weather. When Yara, Theon and Asher were escorted into the room, the four sisters were around a low table, sitting on beaded cushions on the floor. “Your Grace,” Elia Sand said. She did not rise to greet them. Her lover boy was not with her today and her body was more covered up than it was yesterday, but not by much. She was wearing a sleeveless red dress with several silken folds and a low neckline that exposed her tanned chest. There was a gold belt cinched at her slim waist and a golden sun pendant hanging from her neck. Obella was sitting next to her, but Elia gestured for her to move over one pillow. “The Queen of the Iron Islands must sit next to me. Us female rulers should be friends, should we not?”

Yara nodded her head and obeyed. She did not know exactly what to make of this woman. Elia Sand was beautiful and intriguing, and before all this had happened she would’ve been exactly the kind of woman Yara would’ve wanted to bed. _There is something so irresistible about her._ And Elia Sand clearly knew the effect she had on men and women alike. But ever since being on _The Silence_ with Euron, she had not spent much time thinking of the pleasures which she once cherished.

Just the thought of her dead uncle made her feel cold. The nights she’d spent in his captivity still burned as brightly in her mind as if it were yesterday. She could still hear Euron’s laughter in her dreams. _Smile for your uncle, won’t you sweetling?_ Sometimes she’d wake up in the middle of the night in terror, the feeling of cold pinchers in her mouth as real as if it were happening all over again. And the memory of the knife’s bitter bite as she screamed, helpless to stop her mutilation…

Elia Sand saw her shiver and placed a warm, soft hand on Yara’s thigh, leaning in closer to her. “Cold, Your Grace?”

_Yes,_ Yara thought. _But not from the weather._

Asher was happy to sit down next to Loreza Sand and Theon sat at Obella Sand’s other side. “Try this.” Loreza said, pouring a mixture of half-water, half-wine into Asher’s cup. “Dornish strongwine is sweeter than nectar. Much better than the red water from the Reach…”

“Are you sure that’s a – ” Theon began to say, but Asher, eager to please Loreza, had already lifted the cup to his lips and taken long, greedy sips.

“The boy will be fine.” Elia insisted. “Loreza gave him mostly water anyway, and you are not traveling anywhere tonight. If anything, the wine will only make him sleepy, and he’ll be out of your hair. Perhaps we can have some more adult fun then…” She glanced at Yara, who quickly looked away.

_I am not here to bed this woman. I’m here to get her men and ships._ She reminded herself. _Though with how yesterday went, perhaps I may_ need _to bed her to get her men and ships…_

Servants brought out trays of food for them, which was like nothing the Greyjoys had ever seen in the Iron Islands or the North. There was a whole roasted lamb, grapeleaves stuffed with peppers and onions, large pieces of flat bread, white cheeses, and both green and purple olives. “Hmm, this is good.” Theon commented as he chewed on an unidentified type of grilled meat. “What is it?”

Dorea giggled. “Grilled snake.” Yara watched as her brother’s face turned white and he discreetly spit into his napkin.

Eating had become more difficult for her without a tongue. For the first few days afterwards she had almost starved herself, the thought of putting anything in her sore, bloody mouth too painful to bear, until Euron had practically forced food down her throat. Once Theon took her back to Winterfell she had started off on only soft foods that didn’t require much chewing, and she still didn’t eat any tough meats. Her teeth had to do all the work now, so Yara tried to mash food up or break it into as tiny bites as possible with her fork. She didn’t taste as well now either – there was a vague sensation, and she could recollect what certain foods had tasted like, but eating didn’t give her the same pleasure it gave other people. She started off with some of the cheeses, which were soft and easy to chew, but they didn’t taste like anything to her, nor did the bread. The peppers were good. “They’re spicy.” Elia Sand remarked to her. “Quite like I am.” The strong flavors at least were more palpable to her than milder ones, and they weren’t too tough for her to chew either.

And at least Yara could still enjoy wine. The Dornish red was strong and made itself known, and it still burned the back of her throat in a tingling, pleasant sort of way. “Our food and wine in Dorne is better than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms.” Obella Sand was boasting to Theon. “What do you Ironborn eat anyway?”

“Quite a lot of fish.” Theon answered her. “Stews, pies, and a lot of mead and beer…”

“Fish and beer.” Obella scrunched up her nose. “I do not think I could ever survive on such a diet.”

“It sounds quite fun.” Little Loreza said. “Exotic.”

Elia laughed. “Oh my sweet Loree, you innocent little dear. Snakes do not fare well in the sea, remember that.”

“Well I think you should come to the Iron Islands!” Asher piped up. “You could visit us at my aunt’s castle, and I’d teach you how to sail, just like my father is teaching me.”

Loreza smiled before turning back to her lamb. “You are kind to offer.”

_Oh my poor nephew._ Yara thought. _He is half in love with her already…_ While he stared at Loreza with adoration in his eyes, the Sand girl was too old for him and seemed to treat Asher as a girl would treat a doll. She doted on him because he was young and cute, a plaything. Though Asher could not see the difference, only relishing in the fact that she was paying attention to him. Luckily he was still a little boy, and would recover from this folly. When they returned to the Iron Islands there would be girls there his own age who would be happy to marry him when they grew up, girls who knew the Ironborn way of life. _And maybe someday he can sit the Salt Throne after I die, with a Blacktyde or a Harlaw or a Goodbrother queen by his side._ That would make Yara very happy indeed.

Their meal was interrupted by the return of the steward. “Princess,” He said to Elia. “Your sister is here.”

Yara was confused, and when her eyes met Theon’s she could see his were as well. _I’d forgotten there was a fifth sister._ Another young woman stepped into the room, though she looked very little like the other Sand Snakes. She was tall and slender like her sisters, but her skin was a light brown, and her curly black hair was cut close to her scalp. Her body was clad in a pair of men’s breeches and an emerald green tunic, and in her arms she was carrying a large book. But her eyes were big and black, Oberyn Martell’s eyes.

Elia stood up. “Sarella, finally you’ve come down.” She turned to Yara and Theon. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Sarella Sand. Sarella, this is Queen Yara of the Iron Islands and her brother Theon Greyjoy.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” The one called Sarella said. She had a soft Dornish drawl. Sarella sat down next to Loreza and poured herself a cup of wine, opening her book on her knees.

“Oh, Sarella.” Obella sighed. “You shouldn’t read at the table. Speak with our guests.”

“I did speak to them.” Sarella said, not looking up. “I came down to dinner just like you asked, even though I’m not hungry, and now I’d really like to finish my book.”

Yara could not help but notice that Sarella looked older than the other Sand Snakes. She was probably closer to the king’s age. Theon seemed to be thinking the same thing as her. “Princess Sarella,” He said. “Pardon my asking…but how old are you?”

“Four and twenty.”

So she was slightly older than Yara had thought, of an age with Theon instead of Jon Snow. _Why is Elia the Princess of Dorne if she has an older sister?_ She glanced at the woman next to her.

Princess Elia seemed to understand. “Sarella has just returned to us from Oldtown.”

“Oldtown.” Theon repeated. “And what was she doing there?”

“Studying,” Sarella answered. By this point she had closed her book, reading being a lost cause. “At the Citadel.”

This only made Yara and Theon more confused. “The Citadel does not admit women.”

“It does not, but I disguised myself as a boy. I forged three links in my chain before they caught on to my ruse and kicked me out. Elia can have Sunspear, I never wanted to be a princess. I want to be a Maester.”

Elia and Obella’s eyes met. Obella chewed on an olive slower than necessary and Elia leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table. Meanwhile Dorea was stabbing her snake with her knife as if she were killing it for a second time, and Loreza was not paying attention to their conversation, talking to Asher. “Last night, after you went to your rooms,” Elia said. “My sisters and I had a talk. As much as I want peace for my people, I feel a kinship with you Queen Yara, one woman to another.”

Yara suspected Elia wanted her to somehow reciprocate, but Yara only stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Perhaps we may reach an agreement. I hear the Dragon Queen is an advocate for the downtrodden – if she wants my help, I want some things in return.”

This was more promising than the utter refusal they’d received yesterday, but Yara and Theon still exchanged a hesitant look. “And what exactly is that?” Theon asked.

“First,” Elia said. “We want the genderblind succession laws of Dorne to be adopted in all of the kingdoms.”

_That we can do._ Yara thought. Daenerys had already expressed her wish for her firstborn child to succeed her regardless of gender. It would not be a popular policy at first, but it was one the queen was determined to implement.

“Done,” Theon said. “What else do you want?”

Elia looked at Sarella. “We want the Citadel to admit women.”

Yara and Theon’s eyes met from across the table. _That we can’t promise._ The Citadel’s rules were determined by the maesters, and the monarchs had no say. Queen Alysanne had tried to convince the maesters during her husband’s reign, but they’d only smiled and nodded to her face, promising to consider it, while secretly never taking her seriously. Even a queen could not force those stubborn old men to do something they did not want to do. “We are sympathetic to your request,” Theon said. “But this is not a promise we can make. Queen Daenerys and King Jon don’t have the authority to force the Citadel to do anything.”

Elia Sand’s black eyes narrowed. For a moment, her friendliness melted away as a hard determination overcame her expression. “The queen has two dragons.” She snapped. “She can fly the damned things to the Citadel and make them listen. This is our second condition. If you refuse it, then our help is off the table.”

“Allow us some time to write back to the king and queen – ”

“No.” Elia insisted. “I will have an answer from you now.”

Theon looked desperately to Yara, and she shook her head. They did not have the authority to make this promise. But Theon only took a deep breath and looked back at Elia. “Done.”

Yara gave him a look, and Theon only shrugged at her. “What was I supposed to do?” He mouthed. Yara rolled her eyes at him.

Elia Sand was now beaming, as was Obella. Even Dorea and Loreza looked excited, and Sarella Sand gave her first genuine smile of the night. “Excellent.” Elia Sand said. “I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding.”

“So you will come back to Winterfell with us?”

Elia took a long sip from her wine. “My armies need to be rallied and my ships need to be prepared. When it comes time for battle, my men will meet yours at King’s Landing. That is my offer, take it or leave it.”   

_We made you promises, and now you are asking us to trust you?_ Yara didn’t like having to put her faith in women she’d just met a day ago, and who had initially refused to help them, but as she and Theon looked at each other, they both knew this was their only option. _We don’t hold any bargaining power here._ They were going to have to get in bed with snakes if they wanted to survive.

When the meal was over they all stood up to return to their respective bedchambers. As Elia predicted, Asher looked like he was about to doze off, so Theon picked him up to carry him upstairs, and the boy nestled his face into his father’s neck. Elia Sand gave Asher a goodbye kiss on the head, but when she moved to say goodnight to Theon and Yara, she surprised them both by rejecting Theon’s offer of a handshake in favor of grabbing his face so she could kiss him on the mouth. His eyes widened in surprise, and then the Princess of Dorne moved swiftly to give Yara the same token of her affection. Princess Elia’s lips were soft and velvety, and against her better judgment Yara could not help but reciprocate the gesture. _She has very nice lips…her mouth was made for kissing…_

Princess Elia grinned at her. “If you get lonely in your bedchamber tonight,” She whispered. “You are more than welcome to come visit me in mine. Dickon has gone back to Kingsgrave for the fortnight, and I’ll send my chamber maids away. We could finally be alone together…”

It was a tempting proposition, and Yara almost gave in. The thought of getting to see what beautiful Elia Sand’s body looked like underneath those silk gowns, to kiss her smooth skin and touch her in intimate places, was almost too much to pass up. Yara forced herself to shake her head. She took Elia’s hand in hers – _Gods, her hands are soft_ – and traced her refusal on her palm.

_Not until I have your men and ships._

Elia’s kissable lips formed a grin, and then she laughed. “You are a woman who knows what she wants, Queen Yara of House Greyjoy. I am too, and you must know I am determined now that someday I will have you. I am willing to wait however long it takes. I daresay I am becoming more and more intrigued by you with each passing day.”

_As am I with you._ Yara thought. _But I still don’t trust you yet._

* * *

**GILLY**

“You know I love you Sam, but you’re no fighter. I don’t want you to get yourself killed.”

From where her husband was sitting on their bed, he sighed and closed the book he was reading. “I know,” He said. “And I don’t intend to make a widow of you five weeks after our wedding, but I have a responsibility to Jon and the queen.”

“And a responsibility to me as well.” Maybe it was selfish of her to say so, but Gilly did not care. Sam was _her_ husband, and her son’s father. _I’ve already shared him with Jon Snow for years,_ She could not help but think. _Let me have a turn._ Perhaps it was childish to think so, but she only felt this way was because Sam and her son were her whole world. Nothing else mattered to her, not even Jon Snow, not even the realm.

She hadn’t grown up here. Starks and Lannisters, Tarlys and Arryns and Martells, none of that had ever mattered. Survival had mattered. Safety had mattered. In Craster’s Keep she’d grown up among the women, her mother and aunts and sisters. She learned how to sew up holes in clothes, to hunt in the woods surrounding the keep, to find herbs for medicines, to skin rabbits and squirrels, to help deliver babies. _You must always keep your head down, be honest and useful in everything you do._ Her mother had told her, before she’d died when Gilly was but a wisp of a girl. So she’d been as good a girl as she could and always did what she was told, and there were moments when she even reckoned that she was happy. Really she had not known then what happiness was.

Sam had been the first man she met who did not scare her. From the first time she saw him she thought his face was kind, and the gentle voice he spoke to her in made her feel at ease. When she bore her son and was faced with losing him, it was Sam who risked everything to get them both away from there, and she was so grateful that she had named her son after him. _He was the first one who ever made me happy, who taught me what it meant to be loved._ The rest of the world didn’t matter to her, only Sam and her son. And maybe it was selfish of her, but she did not care, because for years she’d been a quiet, good girl and now she wanted one thing for herself. Was that too much to ask for?

Sam sighed. “I know.” He said. “I’m sorry, but Daenerys made me Lord of Highgarden. She released me from my vows so that I could marry you. I can’t abandon them now.”

Any anger Gilly had felt for him faded in that instant and she sighed, looking at him. He was impossible to stay mad at. He was a good one, the man that she married. “I know,” She said. “I’m sorry too.”

“Don’t apologize to me. You have every right to be upset. I wish it didn’t have to be this way either.”

“So what will happen now?”

“Symun Fossoway has Highgarden now, and a majority of houses from the Reach have pledged to Cersei’s cause. I don’t think we can count on them switching sides.” Sam laughed quietly. “Good news is Talla doesn’t have to marry that old bastard now. I can’t marry my sister off to a traitor, can I?”

Little Sam was playing with his toys on the bedroom floor, and his blonde head looked up as his father spoke. “Mama,” He said. “Papa said a bad word.”

Gilly could not help but smile. “He did. Tell Papa to say sorry.”

Her four year old got up and toddled over to Sam, tugging on his pant leg. “Papa, you said a bad word.”

Sam smiled too and lifted Little Sam up to sit on the bed with him. “You’re right, I did. Sorry Sammy. Are you and Mama going to wash my mouth out with his soap?” The prospect made Little Sam giggle.

“No Papa!”

Gilly smiled and laughed at their antics as she continued to pull laundry out of the basket and fold it to be packed away. Of course there were servants who could do it for her, but she liked having something to do. Sitting around doing nothing made her feel antsy, like at any moment her dead father was going to reappear before her and strike her for laziness. _No matter how many years have passed that man is always going to have an effect on me._ She was once again glad that Little Sam had a good father who would treat him with love and raise him to be a good person, so he would not have to carry around the scars like she did.

“Papa,” Little Sam said. “Can we play swords with Uncle Jon and Uncle Edd?”

Sam sighed and stood up. “Uncle Jon might be busy, but we can go find Uncle Edd. Give your mother a kiss before we go.”

Little Sam toddled over to Gilly and she knelt down so that he could reach her lips. “Love you, Mama.”

She smiled and pressed another kiss to his head. “I love you too. Have fun.”

After her husband and son left her, she continued packing up in silence for a while longer. Everything had its place: dresses and stockings, tunics and doublets, socks and smallclothes. Never had Gilly had as many clothes as she did now, and she still didn’t quite feel comfortable in gowns. They were so expensive that with every step she took, she feared she was going to somehow ruin it. She felt foolish when she was dressed like a lady, like she was a girl playing dress up and not a full-grown wife of a lord. _But Sam always says I’m beautiful, no matter what I wear._ He was the only man who had ever said that to her. As out of place as she felt sometimes, he always made her feel like she was good enough.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she did not hear the knock at the door at first. “Lady Tarly.”

Gilly looked up. Every time someone said ‘Lady Tarly’, she forgot at first that they were talking to her, and not Sam’s mother or sister. An old man in black robes with a chain about his neck was standing in the doorway. “Maester Wolkan,” She said. “What a surprise. Come in.”

The old man stepped inside the room. Gilly liked the maester from what she’d seen of him – he was a nice man, and he reminded her of Maester Aemon. Maester Aemon had been one of the smartest men she’d ever met, and he’d shown kindness to her and the babe after Sam brought them to Castle Black. Neither she nor Little Sam would be alive today if not for the late maester’s help.

Maester Wolkan noticed that she was folding clothes. “Do you want me to find a servant to do that for you, my lady?”

“It’s all right. I like having something to do.”

“Very well.” The maester hesitated, and Gilly could tell that there was something he wanted to say to her. She noticed that he was holding a wooden box of something in his hands.

“Is something the matter?”

“Not necessarily, my lady…” Gilly did not know what he meant by that, and Maester Wolkan looked nervous. “My lady, are you aware that after all the injuries that needed to be treated after the battle, the king assigned a young boy to come on as my assistant?”

“I do.” Sam was the one who had given Jon the idea, actually. There were too many sick and injured who needed constant treatment for Wolkan to do all on his own, so they’d found a boy with some medical potential to help the maester where he could.

“And young Garth has been very helpful, truly. I’ve taught him to stitch up cuts, make poultices, check wounds for infection…” The maester paused and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then he extended the wooden box to Gilly. “Here.”

She tossed the dress she was folding aside and examined the box’s contents. Inside, rows of tea bags were lined up, and she could smell the familiar scent. It was like herbs and sweet fruit: tansy. “Moon tea?” She said. “I don’t understand. I already have a moonturn’s worth. I just got it two weeks ago.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Wolkan said. “But two weeks ago I was very busy, and I asked Garth if he could brew the moon tea for me. I’d shown him how to do it a half a dozen times. The thing is, one of the guards’ wives came to me this morning, telling me that she was experiencing symptoms of pregnancy even though she’d been drinking her tea. I checked her and found she was indeed with child. So I asked Garth, and I found out he put some mugwort in the brew thinking it was wormwood. The entire batch is ineffective.”

Gilly froze. “Ineffective?”

“I’m afraid so, my lady. Without the wormwood, the tea won’t prevent pregnancy, just taste quite terrible.”  

Gilly opened her mouth, but no words came out. _So for two weeks none of my moon tea has been working?_ “Who else at the castle did the bad batch go to?”

“There were a couple ladies who drank from it, but I went to see them all this morning and each of them assured me they’ve recently had their moonblood. So far the guard’s wife is the only one who seems to have gotten pregnant because of Garth’s mistake.” Wolkan frowned at her. “Pardon my asking, my lady…but have you bled recently?”

Gilly felt a sinking feeling in her gut. _No._ “I’m not supposed to get it until next week.” She hadn’t been feeling sick at all, but if she hadn’t been taking moon tea for two whole weeks… _Could I be pregnant?_ A month ago the possibility of being with child would’ve been a joy to her, but now she was seized by fear, as terrified now as she had been when she found out she was carrying Craster’s child four years ago. _I can’t have a child in the middle of a war. This time it was supposed to be different…_

“My lady,” Wolkan said. “I am very sorry. And should this horrible mistake have gotten you with child…”

He trailed off. He didn’t need to finish his sentence, Gilly knew what he was implying. Once, when she was very young, one of her sisters had gotten pregnant and snuck off to see a woods witch. She’d been unable to bear the thought of having a son that would be given to the Walkers, or a daughter that would be doomed to the ill fate of all of Craster’s daughters. She’d tried to be secretive about it, but then Craster found out…Gilly shuddered just remembering what the poor girl had looked like when he was done with her. Within the year she died bringing another child into the world. A boy. Gilly remembered that night she had covered her face with her pillow and wept for them both.

“I wouldn’t be able to do that.” She told Wolkan. “Some women may chose that, but I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.”

The maester nodded. “I understand, my lady. Regardless, this still may prove to be nothing at all. We cannot know if you are with child or not until you miss your blood or begin to have symptoms. You may not be.”

“Yes, I may not be.”

_But then again,_ She added silently. _Maybe I am._ The possibility was threatening to drive her mad with worry.

Her mind raced to Sam, and Gilly thought to herself that she could not tell him yet. He had enough to worry about already, and she would not say anything to him. Not until she knew for sure…

* * *

**GENDRY**

“I hope I am not disturbing you.”

He was sitting at the desk in his bedchamber working on another book Ser Davos had selected for him when there was a soft knock at the door, and Sansa entered. Surprised, Gendry quickly rose to his feet, forgetting for a moment that he did not need to bow to her. “Lady Stark. No, you’re not disturbing me at all.”

She smiled. “How many times must I tell you to call me Sansa?”

“Sorry, Lady – _Sansa_.” Sansa was his future sister-in-law, but she was also a highborn lady, and sometimes Gendry forgot that they were legally of equal rank now. “When did you and Lord Tyrion return from the Vale?”

“Only just an hour ago.”

“Did Lord Arryn agree to let the king and queen keep the Knights of the Vale?” 

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

There was a beat of awkward silence before Sansa spoke again. Her blue eyes swept the room and she was wringing her hands, which alerted Gendry that there was something else, something she was unsure how to tell him. “Gendry,” She said finally. “There’s someone I want you to meet. It is a long story, so will you promise to let me finish before you say anything?”

Gendry had no idea what she could possibly be referring to, but he forced himself to nod. “All right…”

Lady Sansa peeked her head back into the hallway and called for someone. A moment later she reentered the room, and following after her was a young woman Gendry had never seen before. She looked to be a few years older than himself, tall and slender with short black hair, dressed in a tunic, breeches and dirty boots. That reminded him of Arya. But it was her eyes that really captured Gendry’s attention. They were by far her best feature, big and blue, and they reminded him startlingly of how his own looked in the mirror.

“Gendry Baratheon,” Sansa said. “This is Mya Stone. Until very recently Mya was in service to House Royce at the Gates of the Moon. Her mother was a commoner who died a few years back. And her father…her father was the king.”

Gendry’s eyes tore away from Mya to stare at Sansa. Was she saying what he thought she was? “The king?”

Sansa nodded. “King Robert. Mya is your half-sister.”

For several moments Gendry could do nothing but gape at Sansa. _My sister?_ His mother had died when he was scarcely five and ever since Gendry had believed himself alone in the world. Never did he ever think that he would come face to face with a girl who shared his own blood. He looked at Mya again and this time she could not meet his gaze, appearing suddenly timid. She seemed as bewildered as he felt, and he tried to find his voice. “Sansa, may we have a moment alone?”

Sansa glanced from one of them to the other, then nodded. “Certainly. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

The door closed behind her, and for a while longer the two siblings stood there in silence, Gendry staring at Mya, Mya staring at the floor. _She does look like me._ Their eyes, their hair, their height…there was a familial resemblance, no doubt. Never before in his life had Gendry been able to look at another person and see himself in them. His mother was the only other blood relation he’d ever met, and physically he had inherited nothing from her. But Mya was himself in female form. When you looked at them both together, you could tell they were related.

After a few moments, Mya tentatively looked up. “I’m sorry.” She said, laughing quietly. “You must think me deaf and dumb. I swear I’m not usually like this…”

Gendry cleared his throat. “Me either. I just…I never thought I’d have a sister.”

“And I never thought I’d have a brother.” Mya said. “It seems we were both wrong.” 

They both laughed at that, and Gendry silently wondered what he should say to her. Where was he supposed to even start? “Would you like to sit down?”

“I suppose I should – I fear I may faint otherwise.”

Gendry let her have the desk chair and kept himself standing. He felt suddenly restless and needed to pace about the room to get his thoughts in check. “I’m sorry,” He told her. “This is a lot to take in.”

“I know. What are you supposed to do when you find out you have a grown sibling you’ve never met?”

“I have no idea.”

“Me either.”

“How did you even find out about me?” Gendry asked.

“Lord Tyrion realized who I was the moment he saw me.” Mya explained. “He and Lady Stark told me that I had a recently legitimized half-brother at Winterfell, and asked me if I’d like to come meet you. I nearly laughed in Lady Stark’s face when she told me, I thought this was all some big joke at first. Of course eventually I decided I needed to meet you. I knew I would spend the rest of my life wondering if I did not.”

“I am glad you did.” Mya smiled at him, exposing a dimple at the corner of her mouth. His _sister._ He did not know how long it would take for him to get used to that.

“You’re different than what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. When I found out I had a legitimized half-brother, I…I don’t know, I feared you may want nothing to do with me. Thought maybe you’d be some stuffy, uppity sot.”  

Gendry could not help but laugh at that. “This time last year I was a bastard smith living in Flea Bottom. I’ve only been Lord Baratheon for about two months. I can barely read or write, I know nothing about ruling, and I still feel like I’m just playing dress up in a lord’s clothes.”

“Aye,” Mya said, examining the contents of his desk. “Your handwriting looks like chicken scratch.” She grinned wickedly. “Of course, I can barely read myself. Lady Stark tells me you’re betrothed to her sister?”

A smile came to Gendry’s face at the mention of Arya. “Arya. We’ve known each other for a long time. Considering you’re already making fun of my handwriting, I think the two of you would have some laughs together at my expense.”

“I look forward to meeting her.” Mya watched him silently for a moment, her blue eyes thoughtful. “You look a great deal like him, our father. At least, you look like him when he was young.”

That was not what Gendry had expected her to say. “You knew our father?”

“When I was very little. He used to come visit me, play with me. He was such a jovial man back then, always laughing, always joking. He called me his little fawn…” She trailed off, her smile turning into a frown. “After he became king, he stopped coming to visit me. For years I waited by the window every day, hoping that maybe today he would return, and crying when he didn’t. After a while, I stopped hoping. Our father had good intentions, but it was not in his nature to be loving and attentive. He was very good at making bastards, but not so good at raising them.”

Gendry tried to picture it in his mind: King Robert twenty years younger and a hundred pounds thinner, tossing a young version of Mya in the air, kissing her cheeks, chasing her around playfully. Maybe the dead king had been a drunk and an absentee parent, but he had still been Gendry’s father. Part of him wished he could’ve met the man at least once. “Well,” He said to Mya. “We’ll learn from his mistakes then, and be better family to each other than he was to us.”

His half-sister smiled ever so slightly. “I suppose we will.”

They were interrupted by another knocking at the door and Gendry called for whoever it was to come in. The king and queen stepped into the room now, along with Sansa. “Pardon our interruption.” Jon said. He nodded at Mya. “My lady.”

“Oh,” Mya said. “I’m no lady.”

“You’re the Lord of Storm’s End’s sister.” Daenerys insisted. “Like it or not, you _are_ a lady.” Mya blushed at that.

Sansa asked Mya if she was tired after their journey, and when Mya responded she was, Sansa offered to show her to her chambers and have a bath drawn for her. Mya seemed surprised that she was being waited on for once and offered her thanks, allowing Sansa to lead her away. Gendry promised to check up on her later. “Come with us to our solar.” Jon told him. “We need to talk about Storm’s End.”  

Arya and Lord Tyrion were both waiting for them, the table covered in a map of Westeros decorated with assorted cyvasse pieces. Arya smiled when she saw Gendry and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Sansa told me about Mya. How did it go?”

“Good. I’ll introduce you later – I think the two of you will get along.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Tyrion extended a raven scroll to Gendry. “This just arrived.”

Gendry could not read all of the words written on the parchment in an unfamiliar hand, but he stared at it for a long moment, trying to piece together what he could. _Queen Cersei…lord…Storm’s End…the Trants…Your Grace…_ “Cersei gave Storm’s End to Lord Trant?”

Daenerys nodded. “This letter is from Arstan Selmy, Lord of Harvest Hall. I knew his great-uncle Ser Barristan. Lord Selmy says that Cersei has named the Trants the new Lords Paramount of the Stormlands, and she’s demanded that all the stormlanders pledge allegiance, with threat of military action if they do not. She’s sending Symun Fossoway to make sure everything goes according to her plan. We have no idea how many men he’s bringing.”  

“Have the stormlanders agreed to pledge allegiance?” Gendry asked. The Trants were an old and noble house – why should the stormlanders take an upjumped bastard for their lord instead?

“Some of them have.” Jon said. “But they’re all minor houses: the Whiteheads, the Tudburys, and the Kellingtons. Lord Selmy has assured Daenerys that Queen Cersei is not well liked in the Stormlands, and many of the lords will not accept the Trants so easily.”

“Good,” Arya said. “Storm’s End belongs to Gendry, not to them.”

Daenerys looked at him. “Lord Selmy says in his letter that he is with our cause, and he will find men to support you should you come to retake your family’s seat. If he is anything like his great-uncle, I will take him at his word.”  

“And politically,” Tyrion added. “He is taking a risk just sending this letter to us. I think he could be a strong ally for you.” He leaned forward and traced his finger on the map, from Winterfell down the Kingsroad. “We’re marching south in two days. We’ll cross at the Twins, proceed through the Riverlands, and go to Riverrun to free Lord Edmure. But…” Tyrion stopped at the crossroads. “When the rest of us go west to Riverrun, you’ll go southeast to Storm’s End. Ser Davos and some troops will accompany you to take back Storm’s End from the Trants. You’ll need to remain inconspicuous and try to avoid major roads. Lord Selmy will meet you south of the Wendwater.”   

Gendry nodded. “Has Lord Selmy said how many men he could secure for us?”

“It will not be a large number, whatever it is.” Jon said. “But Lord Selmy has the Dondarrions with him, and he’s sent ravens to Tarth, Griffin’s Roost, Bronzegate, and several houses on the Dornish marches.”

“Let me go with you,” Arya said to Gendry. “To help you take Storm’s End.”

“With all due respect,” Tyrion said. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Arya glared at him. “Why not? I’m Gendry’s intended, and the future Lady of Storm’s End. I should be with him.”

“Lord Baratheon has to ride through enemy territory, and even if they make it to the Stormlands without being captured or killed, there will still be battle. Why should we put your life at risk if it’s not necessary?”

“But you’re sending Ser Davos with him!”

“Ser Davos knows the Stormlands and will help Lord Baratheon with his allies.”

Arya looked to Gendry, and though he could tell she wanted him to agree with her, he was unsure. “Lord Tyrion has a point, and I’ll have Ser Davos with me. You may be needed in the Riverlands.”

Now Arya looked to Jon, but her brother too only shrugged. “Lord Tully is your uncle. We may need you and Sansa at Riverrun, and Gendry will be fine on his own.”

Arya twirled one of the cyvasse pieces between her fingers and didn’t say anything for several moments. Gendry saw her huff to herself, which let Gendry know he’d won. “You better not try to die without me, stupid.”

Gendry rolled his eyes and kissed the top of her head. “Wouldn’t even think about it, m’lady.”

* * *

**BRIENNE**

It was a gloomy and dreary day on the road, with a grey sky and a wet snow falling. Lady Sansa rode in a carriage with Lord Tyrion, her aunt Roslin Tully and Lady Tully’s son, while the king and queen flew overhead on the backs of Drogon and Rhaegal. The Knights of the Vale were being led by Ser Harrold Hardyng, the handsome young lord Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion had brought back from the Gates of the Moon, and Ser Jorah Mormont led the Dothraki and Unsullied. The northern armies were each led by their respective lords and ladies, and the Greyjoys' fleet would rejoin them at the Twins. Brienne was riding alongside the Hound today, and when she looked to her other side and found it empty, she suddenly yearned for Podrick.

Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon were up ahead of them, talking quietly to each other, and Ser Davos was riding alongside his sons Devan and Stannis. Lady Marya was with young Steffon in a wagon and would rejoin them when they camped.   

Behind Brienne and the Hound was Tormund, leading a Free Folk horde with his daughters Manda and Munda by his sides. The three of them were singing a song as they rode. “ _Oooooooh, I am the last of the giants, so learn well the words of my song. For when I am gone the singing will fade, and the silence shall last long and long…_ ”

“I wouldn’t mind some silence around here.” the Hound grumbled.

Manda leaned over towards her father. “Why is the Dog always so grumpy?”

“Perhaps a good fight or a good fuck would cheer him up.” Munda said.

The Hound glared at Tormund. “Why are members of your family always trying to suck my dick?”

“What is this dick you speak of?” Manda asked.  

“He means cock.” Tormund supplied.

“Ahhh.”

“You flatter yourself, Dog.” Munda laughed. “You are too southron for my sister and I.”

But Brienne was too preoccupied to care about their squabbles. “Does anyone know where Lord Lannister is?” She had not seen Jaime since they left Winterfell days and days ago, and she could not help but feel like he was ignoring her.

Now the Hound turned his attention back to her. “Missing your lover boy, is that it?”

Brienne could feel her cheeks flush. “What? No, that’s not what I meant. He’s not my…”

“No need to hide it.” Tormund said. “We all have eyes here. We see the way you two look at each other.”

“Lannister?” Manda repeated. “I thought he was the one who fucks his sister.”

“Not anymore. Now he wants to fuck her – ”

“Leave Lady Brienne alone, all of you.” Ser Davos said. Brienne could’ve kissed him in that instant. “Lord Lannister is probably riding with his brother. Now, let’s have a few minutes of silence before we camp for the night, hmm?”

They marched down through the Barrowlands and crossed the Fever River. They were not too far from the swampy lands of the Neck now, the last northern lands before they crossed into the Riverlands, but they still had many leagues to go before they would reach the border. They rode their horses along the edge of the Fever River for a while, and eventually Brienne could see the ruins of Moat Cailin in the distance. It was evening when the king and queen’s dragons finally landed, and it was decided that they should camp here for the night. The ground in the Neck would be wet and swampy, not ideal to set up camp, so they’d arise at first light tomorrow and continue on. They would hopefully be out of the North in just a few more days.

Tents were set up outside the ruins of the Moat, and all across the campsite people were building fires. Lady Marya and her son rejoined Ser Davos and the other boys, and Lady Marya insisted on making stew for them all, sending her sons out to gather wood for a fire. Arya and Gendry announced that they were going for a walk, though the Hound did not seem to believe that was what they were really doing. (“The real question is whether they’ll be able to walk tomorrow.” He muttered.) Once the fire was built and they all sat down, Tormund had a bottle of ale that he passed around, so everyone could fill up their crude metal cups. “Perhaps we should sing some campfire songs.”

The Hound wrenched the bottle out of his hand and took a drink straight from it. “No more fucking singing.”

“All right. We’ll tell stories then.”

“What is it like beyond the Wall?” Lady Marya asked as she shucked peas. “Lord…?”

“I am no lord.” Tormund told her. “We Free Folk don’t do things like you kneelers do.”

“Like it or not you’re a kneeler now too,” Brienne said. “Since Lady Stark named you Lord of the Dreadfort.”

“You’ll have to select a name for your house.” Marya said. “Davos had no family name either before King Stannis knighted him. You should choose one that’s meaningful to you, that you can pass onto your children.”

“So you picked this name?” Munda asked. “Seaworth?”

“I did,” Davos confirmed. “Before I was a knight, I was a smuggler. I practically grew up on ships, and everyone called me the Onion Knight because I brought onions to Stannis Baratheon when Storm’s End was under siege and they were starving. So I took a ship with an onion on its sail for my banners as well. If someone is going to throw a name in your face, you might as well embrace it and make it your own.”

Tormund was silent for a long moment, before he finally raised his cup. “To House Rayder,” He finally said. “For our words…Forever Free.”

Manda and Munda raised theirs as well. “To Mance.” They said, clinking their cups together.

Brienne smiled melancholily. “An excellent choice. To House Rayder.” 

They all clinked their cups together in a toast and Marya finished cooking supper, just as a bunch of other soldiers in the camp rose to their feet. Brienne looked up and saw Lord Tyrion and Jaime walking in their direction. Lord Tyrion disappeared into the king and queen’s tent, while Jaime remained outside.

“Lannister!” Tormund bellowed. “Come, have a drink with us!”

Jaime walked over to them and Brienne suddenly felt as nervous as a little girl. This did not go unnoticed by the Hound, who was smirking at her. “What?” Brienne snapped at him. Clegane only shook his head.

Tormund poured some ale into another cup. “We are toasting my new house, Lannister.” He said, forcing the cup into Jaime’s hand. He clinked their cups. “To House Rayder. Forever Free.”

Jaime forced a smile. “May your rule be long and prosperous.” He said, but Brienne noticed he only took one sip of the ale before putting it down. He still had Widow’s Wail strapped to him too, and his golden hand had not moved from the hilt since he’d arrived.

“Would you like to stay and sup with us, my lord?” Lady Marya asked kindly. “We would be happy to have you.”

“No thank you, my lady. I’m just waiting for my brother to finishing speaking with Their Graces. Then I will be going back to my tent for the night, I am…” He trailed off. “…quite tired.”

“It has been a long journey already, indeed.” Ser Davos said. “And we still have another month on the road at least.”

The Hound nodded at Jaime’s sword belt. “You planning on fighting a battle tonight, Lannister? I think you can take your hand off your sword. I’m not planning on stabbing you – though I might if you start bloody singing.”

“Well, it was at a camp that I lost my hand. You can never be too careful.” He looked over his shoulder and saw that Tyrion had reappeared. “Excuse me.”

They all ate and eventually Arya and Gendry returned from their “walk”, while Tormund was telling a story. “And so then I tried to go back to my tent, but in my drunkenness I got lost, and I suddenly realized that I had stumbled into a she-bear’s cave…”

The Hound snorted. “Oh please, you expect me to believe that you fucked a bear?”

“It’s true! I swear it on my life.”

Abruptly, Brienne stood up. “It’s been a long day.” She said. “I think I…need to take a walk.”

The Hound rolled his eyes and poured himself another cup of ale. “And if that walk leads you to Lord Lannister’s tent, even better.” Brienne glared at him in response.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, but Brienne wasn’t going to Jaime’s tent to sleep with him. She knew something was up with him, and she was determined to find out what he was hiding from her. The sun had set now and pitch blackness was rapidly descending. She was surprised to find Jaime’s horse right outside, still saddled. The tent itself was unguarded – as a majority of the soldiers were now huddled around a fire, playing some kind of drinking game – and she stepped through the flap. “Jaime?”

Jaime was still awake, sitting on his cot, and he jumped to his feet when he saw her. “Wench? What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with you.” Brienne’s eyes scanned the tent. His bed had not been turned down for the night, he was still dressed, and Widow’s Wail was on his person.

“About what?”

Brienne noticed that Jaime’s trunk had been opened and rummaged through. A leather saddlebag had fallen over onto the ground, something peeking out of it, and she picked it up.

“Wench,” Jaime started to say. “Don’t concern yourself with that – ”

Brienne ignored him and reached her hand inside. She found a few days’ worth of clothes, a canteen of water, and some nuts, raisins, and half a loaf of bread that had been wrapped up. “You were going to go out on your own, weren’t you?”

When she looked at Jaime, he only clenched his jaw and turned away, saying nothing.

Brienne laughed bitterly. “Of all the stupid things you’ve done – ”

“That’s enough.” Jaime crossed the tent, wrenching the saddlebag from her hand and throwing it back onto the ground. He grabbed her by the wrist. “I don’t need a lecture Brienne, not from you.”

“What exactly was your plan?”

“Ride to King’s Landing and kill Cersei. I’ll make better time on my own.”

Brienne scoffed. “And how exactly were you going to do that?”

“I’ll wear plain clothes and disguise myself.”

“How were you planning to hide the golden hand?”

“Fine,” Jaime snapped. “Then I’ll cut my way through every guard at the Red Keep until I get to Cersei, or lose my life in the attempt. I don’t care.”

“Well I do!” Brienne blurted out, practically shouting now. They stared at each other, both breathing heavily by this point, and Brienne realized he was still holding her wrist. Jaime abruptly let go and pulled back, but her skin was still tingling where he’d touched her.

“Jaime,” She said softly. “Please don’t be stupid. You can’t kill Cersei by yourself…”

Any annoyance in his eyes was gone now and Jaime sat back down on the edge of his bed, looking defeated. “She may have my child, Brienne. Every night I’m going mad with the possibility…”

With a sigh, Brienne moved to sit next to him and she gently took his good hand in her own. “It won’t do your child any good if its father is dead.” She said. “Please Jaime, I’m just asking you to wait a little while longer. Or if you must go…” She trailed off. “If you must go, take me with you.” At least then they could protect each other.  _I won't let him die without me._

Jaime met her eyes and they were so close now that she could feel the warmth of his ragged breaths. Brienne remembered how he’d kissed her in the courtyard of Winterfell, how he’d almost kissed her again in her room, and now she desperately wanted to kiss him again. Impulsively she cupped his face in her hands and this time it was Brienne who leaned in first. Their lips met, slowly at first, and then more desperately.

Jaime kissed her back and his arms moved to wrap around her waist, pulling her as close to him as physically possible, and she received a taste of his tongue against her lips. Brienne felt warmer now than she had sitting around the fire. When they were together it was like the whole rest of the world melted away, as if they were the only two people that existed. 

Eventually they broke apart, and Jaime pulled away from her to unbuckle Widow’s Wail from his sword belt. “Here.” He said, handing it to her.

Brienne’s fingers clasped the hilt, brushing against Jaime’s as they did so. “What are you giving me this for?”

“You can keep it for the night.” Jaime said. “I trust you more than I trust myself right now.”

A smile came to Brienne’s face. “So you’ll stay then?”

“Yes.” Jaime’s lips met hers once more, but this kiss was briefer, chaste. “I’ll see you in the morning, wench. Get some sleep.”

Brienne left the tent a few moments later, Widow’s Wail now in tow. It was so dark outside she would not have been able to see anything if not for the torches. But at least that meant no one could see her face, looking like a lovestruck child as she blushed and stumbled her way back to her tent…

She knew that Jaime Lannister would once again be in her dreams tonight.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being so goddamn long, I don't even know how it happened. Thank you guys for your views, kudos and bookmarks, and comments always make me the happiest! Comments are the best way to let me know what you think, what you like and what you want to see more of. I don't have a beta reader so I do all of this by myself and post the chapters as soon as I've finished proofreading them. 
> 
> Next chapter: Jaime, Davos, Sansa, Daenerys.


	6. The High and the Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime talks to an old friend; Davos makes a discovery; Sansa grapples with a difficult life decision; Daenerys holds court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this out before the new season, but didn't finish it in time. Oh well! Hope you all enjoyed the new episode.

**JAIME**

The twin castles appeared on the horizon as they ascended the hill, and suddenly Jaime Lannister was looking down upon the Twins for the second time in three months. Banners bearing the two blue towers of House Frey were now flying at the gates, whipping in the breeze, and the drawbridge lowered to grant them access. “The castle seems to have really come to life.” Brienne said to him. She’d been riding next to Jaime every day since the stunt he’d pulled a week earlier.

The king and queen landed their dragons while they rode their horses into the courtyard, the armies having to set up camp outside. Drogon and Rhaegal landed inside the Twins’s walls while Jaime disembarked from his horse.

“Well, if it isn’t one of my favorite Lannister brothers!”

Jaime did a double take when he saw Bronn. His old friend had his hair slicked back and was dressed well, in a black velvet doublet and new leather boots. The Frey twins were trailing behind him, both dressed in matching blue gowns, their arms locked together as they walked. “Are you wearing hose?” Jaime asked Bronn.

“I’m Lord of the Twins now,” Bronn said, approaching him. “I have to look the part. That includes wearing stupid hose, and having my two Frey beauties by my sides.”

 _Beauties_ was maybe a generous word to use, and the girls were technically behind him instead of at his sides, but Jaime said nothing. They were comely enough, and if Bronn was happy with the match, that was good enough for him. “I heard you’ve had your wedding already.” He said. “Should I be offended that I wasn’t invited?”

“It was only a quiet affair, a week after you and Tyrion brought me here to arrange the betrothal. I couldn’t have too many witnesses and risk our little secret getting out, could I? I needed to seal the deal.” Bronn smirked at Serra and Sarra, who smiled and waved at Jaime when they saw him looking. “I bet I’ve put sons in both of them. We’ll see if they’re still such good sisters when they’re fighting over whose child gets to be my heir.”

“You’ve been married for less than three months.”

“And that’s plenty of time to put a child in a woman, if you know what you’re doing. They’ll both be missing their blood soon enough, I’m telling you.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Come on then, _Lord Frey._ Show me your castle.”

Bronn greeted Brienne as she descended her horse, and Tyrion when he joined them. Bronn insisted on the king and queen’s dragons staying out of the Twins’s walls – “They frighten Serra, and I need her to be comfortable if she’s going to bear my son” – and the armies were to set up their tents in the fields. “Perhaps we can have some meat and mead sent out to the men during supper this evening.” Tyrion suggested.

Bronn gave him a look. “Do you know how many goodsisters and goodcousins and aunts-in-law I have under my roof? That’s a lot of mouths to feed. Didn’t you all bring food for your march?”

Jaime could only chuckle under his breath. Men who had never experienced wealth before and now suddenly had it at their fingertips would be desperate to cling to it. _It doesn’t matter. Bronn kept me and Tyrion safe when he had to, and we repaid him just like he wanted._ None of them were indebted to each other now.

They dined in the great hall of the Twins that night. Bronn sat in the central seat on the dais, a wife at each of his sides, and Jaime and Tyrion were also invited to sit with him at the high table. “You’re old friends,” Bronn said. “I have to have a drink with my two favorite brothers, now don’t I?” As for the king and queen, Bronn seemed willing to endear himself to them, but Daenerys was sick from her pregnancy and retired to her guest chambers. Jon Snow was never the most fun person to have at a feast and he left early, excusing himself to check up on his wife and then give the dragons their own supper.  

There was a travelling minstrel that Bronn had come across and brought out to perform for them. The boy wasn’t particularly good in Jaime’s opinion – his voice broke whenever he tried to hit higher notes, and he was trying to play a fiddle even though he was completely out of tune – but Bronn seemed to get a kick out of someone coming to win his favor. The food was average, but the drinks were good, and some people were beginning to get drunk. When the minstrel began to sing bawdy, upbeat tunes like “Meggett Was a Merry Maid, a Merry Maid Was She” or “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown”, some people got up from their seats and began to dance. While Serra Frey looked like she’d rather stay in her seat, the much bolder Sarra grabbed her by the hand and dragged her along. Maybe Bronn really had knocked her up after all, or maybe she just really hated dancing that much, because she looked like she was about to be ill.  

The singer finished “The Dornishman’s Wife” and started up a new song, one Jaime immediately recognized. “ _A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair…_ ” People were now spinning each other around on the dance floor and clapping along.

Jaime’s eyes scanned the room and he landed on Brienne, who was engrossed in a conversation with Sansa Stark. He glanced at Tyrion and noticed his brother was also staring in that direction, though Jaime suspected that the objects of their attentions were different. “I think the serving girl was eyeing you up.” Jaime told him.

Tyrion frowned. “Who?”

“Perhaps she’ll come to your bed tonight if you ask. She’s a redhead, I think you’ll like her.”

Tyrion did not seem to appreciate his jest and scowled at him, before going back to staring at Sansa.

Speaking of the Lady of Winterfell, that young blonde fellow from the Vale appeared seemingly out of nowhere to wrap an arm around her waist. He whispered something to Sansa and she blushed, but then allowed him to escort her for a dance. Tyrion drained the rest of his wine in one long gulp. “Excuse me.” He said to Jaime and Bronn, before getting up from the table and leaving the room without another word.

“He really hates that blonde prick, doesn’t he?” Bronn remarked.

“He does, though there’s not much about him to like. Other than the army he brought with him from the Gates of the Moon…” Harrold Hardyng loved to talk, especially if it was about himself, and had already eyed up every woman he’d encountered on their trip. Jaime found him tiresome.

“If he’s in love with Lady Stark, he should just tell her. Don’t you think she’d rather have him than some perfumed, velvet-draped little boy?”

But Jaime wasn’t even listening to Bronn anymore. Brienne was now by herself and he watched her stand silently at the edge of the room, nursing the same cup of wine she’d been given hours ago. _The tunic she’s wearing really does bring out her eyes._ Jaime could not help but notice. _She has astonishing eyes…_

The feeling of Bronn’s arm wrapping around his shoulder brought him back to reality. “You should ask her to dance.”

Jaime looked back at him. “What? No. No, she doesn’t…I don’t…”

Bronn rolled his eyes and picked up his cup. “Suit yourself.”

Brienne was now roped into a conversation by Ser Davos and Lady Marya, and Jaime tried to force himself to stare at the table instead of at her. “So,” He said to Bronn. “Are you going to continue south with us?”

Bronn scoffed. “Me? No!”

“Why not? I thought you always loved a good fight.”

“I do, but I’ve got my brides now Lannister, a castle to look after, and enough money to keep me happy for a long time. What more do I need? Everything I’ve ever wanted is right here.”

“Come on,” Jaime teased. “Think of all the good times we had together on the road, you and I…”

“You mean when I almost got killed for you, multiple times? Yeah, right…” Bronn drank some more of his wine and he stared thoughtfully at Brienne. She was now listening to Marya and smiling at something the older woman was saying. “But then again, if I stay here, I won’t get to see your prolonged, pining-filled courtship come to a satisfying climax. I really ought to see it through to the finish.”

Now it was Jaime’s turn to feel flushed. “I appreciate that,” He said. “But I wouldn’t exactly call what Brienne and I have been doing a courtship.”

“I would – you’d fuck her, wouldn’t you?”

“Is that the appropriate way to talk about a lady?”

“Have I ever cared for what’s appropriate?”

Bronn poured them each another cup, and Jaime’s good hand clenched the arm of his chair hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. Memories of the night Brienne came to his tent rushed to his mind, of how it had felt to kiss her again. Cersei was the only woman he’d ever laid with, but he suddenly wondered what it would be like to feel Brienne’s bare skin against his, to cup those small breasts in his hand…

 _No._ Jaime silently reprimanded himself. _Don’t even start._ He could not afford to think that way. They were at war and Brienne was his fellow soldier, not something to fantasize over…

Bronn was grinning at him. “So,” He said. “When are you going to make an honest woman out of her, and marry her?”

“Marry her?” A wife was something that Jaime had never wanted. Then he’d forsaken any chance of a marriage he had when he took his Kingsguard vows, and he’d never looked back. But then again… _I am technically Lord of Casterly Rock now, at least in name. If the king and queen truly do grant me a full pardon, they may expect me to make a marriage alliance._

But even so, Brienne would never want to marry him, would she? She’d had more than her fair share of betrotheds as a girl and hated them all. Perhaps she scorned the institution of marriage. _And if she must marry,_ Jaime thought bitterly. _Let it be a whole man, with two hands, and no evil, murderous sisters who need to be defeated._

He turned back to Bronn. “There’s no time for any of that.”

Bronn shrugged, and drained his new drink in two long gulps. “That’s what you say, but your eyes tell a different story.” He stood up. “But what do I care? I already have my wives. Lie to yourself for all I care.”

And then he went to join Serra and Sarra on the floor, leaving Jaime to stew alone.

* * *

**SANSA**

Harrold Hardyng – despite all his faults – was an excellent dancer.

He was light on his feet and glided with a natural ease. As he spun her around to the upbeat tune the singer was playing, Sansa could not help but laugh. It had been ages since she’d been able to do anything like this. Maybe Harry was pompous and full of himself and annoying, but in this moment as he was dancing with her and making her feel like a girl again, the only thing she could think about was how much she was enjoying herself.

“Where did you learn to dance like this, Ser Harrold?”

“My mother always loved to dance.” The young knight replied. “Slow dances mostly, and she taught me all of those – but what she didn’t know was that I would also drink with the servants and they’d teach me how to jig.” Sansa could not help but laugh at that and Harry pulled her into him and twirled her. “You are a good dancer too, Lady Stark. I’m certain you are quite an accomplished woman.”

Sansa smiled. “Define ‘accomplished’.”

“Well, a pretty highborn girl like you,” Harry said. “I bet you can sing and write poetry and sew. You know history and reading and writing and sums. I’d bet you even play an instrument. Perhaps the…the lute? The lyre?”

“The high harp.” Sansa said, blushing. “You’re correct on all other accounts.”

“And not only do you have all the accomplishments of other ladies, you’re smart as a whip. From when I first met you at the Gates of the Moon, I knew you were tenacious.”

“And why do you say that?”

“The way you put up with Lord Arryn’s bullshit, for starters.”

Sansa tried to resist the urge to giggle at that, and failed.  

“And that is why I’m determined to marry you.” Harry finished. “A beautiful, intelligent ruling lady like you – any eligible man who doesn’t want you for his bride must blind, stupid or both.”

Now, Sansa looked down at her feet. She was enjoying herself and she did not want to ruin it with talk of matrimony. Harrold Hardyng may have been handsome and a good dancer, but she did not know him well, and she would not be agreeing to make him her husband any time soon. _The next time I marry, it will be for me._

The song ended and the singer started up again with a slower melody, so Harrold took her arm and led her back over to a table. Sansa looked around the room, trying to locate Brienne again, but she couldn’t find her now. Harrold poured them each a cup of wine and handed her one. “To you.” He said.

Sansa forced a smile. “To us, ser.” She said, clinking their cups together.

They sat down and drank in silence for a moment, Sansa unsure of what to say. The talk of marriage had ruined her good mood. She looked up to the dais and saw Tyrion was gone. “Do you know where Lord Tyrion is?”

A serving wench came around to refill cups and Harry handed her his. “Don’t know.” He told Sansa. “Wasn’t my turn to watch him.” The wench finished pouring and Harry took the cup back, sending her off with a smack on the rump.

Any good will Sansa felt towards him a few moments ago was immediately gone. “You say you want to marry me, Ser Harrold.” She said. “But why should I marry someone who isn’t guaranteed to be faithful to me?”

“What?” Harry laughed. “You’re upset about that? She’s just a serving wench, and she’s nice to look at.”

“So you felt that gave you the right to slap her on the arse?”

“She’s probably grateful for the attention.”

“She probably wants to do her job without you bothering her.”

Harry sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Listen – if you want me to sit here and tell you when we marry, I shall have eyes for you and only you, I cannot tell you that. I am many things, Lady Stark, but I am no liar. I’m not the kind of man who can commit to one woman, and I know that about myself. It’s best that you do too. And besides, if we married, I would not expect you to keep to one bed either if you drink your moon tea afterwards. Who you fuck is none of my concern, as long as I’m the only one you make love to – perhaps Lord Tyrion may be glad to hear that.”

Sansa felt her face grow hot, and she did not know if she was angry or embarrassed. Probably both. “You are very forward, ser.” If he was implying that she was having relations with Tyrion, then she would not sit here and listen to him for a moment longer. _The nerve of this man._

“I did not mean to accuse you of anything, Lady Stark.” Harry said. “But I can’t help but wonder, do you think I’m stupid? Maybe you think yourself intellectually superior to me, and you may be right, but I see the way you look at him. And I get it, he is your former husband. I can understand you still have a soft spot for him, but what can he give you? I’ve made my intentions clear. Has he made you an offer to resume your marriage?”

Sansa stared down at the table top and said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Let me be frank with you my lady, I know you do not love me. I don’t love you either. But I think we could make each other happy. I have many faults, it’s true, but I’m not cruel. If I were your husband, I would respect you for the strong woman you are, give you the freedom to conduct your own political and personal affairs, and never treat you like property. I would let you rule the North as you see fit, and should Robin Arryn die without issue, I would make you Lady of the Vale as well. And let’s be honest – can you imagine any woman wanting to marry Sweetrobin and bear his bratty children? It’s practically a done deal. But I, I could give you as many healthy, beautiful children as you wish to have.”

“Yes,” Sansa said snappily. “It is my understanding you already have a bastard, and another on the way.”

To Harrold Hardyng’s credit, he did not deny it. “Yes. My daughter Alys is two – I named her for my grandmother. She’s a pretty little thing, with my hair and her mother’s eyes, but Lady Waynwood married off the girl’s mother to one of her men-at-arms and I don’t get to see Alys anymore. In truth, she’s probably better off – her new stepfather can give her a stable life that I never could. As for my next bastard, it will be the same. I can never be a true father to either of them, but our children would be highborn: lords and ladies, knights, maybe one of them could even become the next king or queen consort. We’d make very pretty babies, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” When she was a girl, Sansa’s mental image of her perfect husband had looked very much like Harrold Hardyng. She almost laughed as she remembered how she’d once told her father she wanted to give Joffrey sons with beautiful gold hair. _With Harry I could certainly have some golden-haired children, and maybe a redheaded one too._ She could be Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North in her own right, and Lady of the Eyrie and Wardeness of the East by marriage if Ser Harrold really did inherit. _I could be the second most powerful women in Westeros. I could have a family of mine own. I don’t love him now, but maybe it could grow, like Mother and Father._ _Well, maybe not_ that _, but we could learn to like each other at least. And he wouldn't hurt me._ It was everything she wanted…wasn’t it?

Her mind went back to Tyrion and that drunken kiss they’d shared in the darkness of her bed chamber at Winterfell, what felt like so long ago. Sansa had turned the memory over and over in her mind many times since then. _What would it be like to kiss him again?_ It was not the first time she wondered. _Ser Harrold is right. I am falling for Tyrion…but that night he pulled away. We were married once and after how I treated him, why should he have me again?_ What Ser Harrold was offering her was a guarantee, a secure future, and part of Sansa knew it was probably the smart thing to do. But there was another part of her that was still unsure.

Could she commit herself to someone else when there was a chance Tyrion might feel something for her too?

* * *

**DAVOS**

The next morning dawned cold but clear, with no signs of snow on the horizon, and a majority of the lords still passed out in their tents after the events of the last night. They were supposed to leave the Twins that morning, but considering how many men (and a few women too) were now incapacitated, they’d been delayed.

Davos woke up early and Marya said she wanted to walk into the town. The queen had gone there that morning with Missandei to hold a women’s court, and Marya needed to purchase some more thread for her sewing. “You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want.” Marya said. “I won’t be long.”

But Davos thought a walk with his wife would do him some good, so they left the boys still sleeping in the tent and set off arm-in-arm. “Did you have a good time last night?” Davos asked her.

“Yes,” Marya said, but then she paused. “Do highborns usually drink so much?”

Davos resisted the urge to chuckle. “Not all of them. But after the events of the past few months, I think they’re anxious to celebrate wherever they can.”

Marya shook her head. “All of these highborns still confuse me. I don’t know how you’ve dealt with this for years.”

“Lots of practice.”

“I think I’ll be much happier once we’re back on Cape Wrath.” Marya said. “Stannis has been teaching Steffon how to fish, and Devan…” She trailed off.

Davos looked at her. “Devan what?”

“Devan fancies a girl.”

“ _Devan_?” His eldest living son was eighteen, a man grown, and though it made sense he may start looking for a wife soon, in Davos’s mind his sons were still boys. It was hard for him to process. “Do you know her?”

Marya nodded. “She’s a sweet girl, a year younger than him. Daughter of a knight, not much money in the family, but right for Devan. He wants to ask for her hand, but I think he won’t until you’ve met her and given your approval. He greatly values your opinion Davos, more than you know.”

“If he cares for her that much, then I would be glad to have her as my daughter.” Still, Davos felt a pang of remorse remembering how much he had missed in his sons’ lives. _Stannis and Steffon are growing up, and Devan may settle down soon and have a family of his own._ He needed to get to know his sons all over again. _After this war is over, we will all go home together and put these past few years behind us…_

They walked for a few more moments in silence when they came upon a commotion at the south end of the camp. A few soldiers were sitting outside their tents, one with a girl in his lap, one with a girl’s arms wrapped around his neck, another currently kissing another girl heatedly as his friends hooted and hollered.

“You’re a handsome man.” The girl in the lap said. “And a war hero too?”

“Aye,” The soldier said. “I killed the Night King meself, you know. Drove my sword right into his belly, until he burst into flames…”

“Really?” Davos did not know if the girl genuinely believed him or was just pretending. From her friends’ stifled giggles, he thought it was the latter.

“Hey!” Davos called, approaching them. “What do you lads think you’re doing?”

The soldier who had been boasting a few moments before stood up, knocking the whore off his lap. She fell flat on her ass in the dirt. “Nothing, ser – ”

“Nothing, really?” Davos repeated. He looked at the other two men. “You two – Their Graces’ dragons need to be fed. Bring them a freshly slaughtered goat.” The two nodded and mumbled “yes, ser” before racing off, their women forgotten. “And you – ” Davos turned back to the first soldier. “You are going to walk behind the horses and shovel shit for the next three days. And if you even think to run your mouth like that again, I’ll double – no, _triple it_. You understand?”

The soldier had nothing to say now, and he looked down at his boots. “Yes, ser.”

“Good – run along now.” This time he did as he was bid.

Now, Davos turned back to the girls. The other two whores looked embarrassed to have been caught, while the girl who had been sitting on the soldier’s lap earlier stood up and brushed the dirt off her skirt. “Well,” She said. “Jealous, are ye? Do you need a woman?”

“He _has_ a woman.” Marya said, walking up behind Davos. “I’m his wife.”

“Oh, you could join in too.” One of the other girls said. “Every married couple should spice it up every once in a while.” Her friend elbowed her in the ribs to shut her up.

“You’re camp followers.” Davos said. “Well, this is the king and queen’s camp. We can’t afford to have civilians trailing along, distracting the men. And besides, you’re putting your own lives unnecessarily at risk.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” The first girl retorted. She trailed her slim fingers down Davos’s chest. He could get a good look at her now: wild black curls, startlingly blue eyes, pale cleavage on display in her half-unbuttoned dress. “I’m called Bella, for the battle. I could ring your bell too, if you wanted…”

“How many times must I tell you – ” But Davos cut himself off. _Wait._ “Bella – for the Battle of the Bells?”

“That’s right. My friends and I come from Stoney Sept, some days south of here. When King Robert hid there during the rebellion, he had all the girls at the brothel, but my mother was his favorite.” She looked at the other girls, but Davos could not stop staring at her. “We thought maybe the king and queen’s soldiers could use some friends too…”

Davos pushed her hand off his chest, but grabbed her arm. “Marya,” He said to his wife. “I think you’ll need to go into the village without me today. I’ll explain later. You – ” He said to Bella. “ – are coming with me.”

The girl smiled. “Your grip is strong. Do you like it rough, old man?”

Davos ignored her and led her back to the castle.

When he burst into the chamber, Gendry, Arya and Mya were all breakfasting, Gendry reading one of the books Davos gave him, Arya stirring her tea as she talked to Mya about horses. They all looked up in unison. “Pardon the interruption, m’lord.” Davos said, before turning to Bella. “Tell him what you just told me.”

“What?” Bella said. “You want me to proposition your lord – ?”

“Not that. Is King Robert your father?”

At Davos’s words, Gendry and Mya both stared at him, while Bella looked perplexed. “Why – my ma always told me he was. When I was little I never believed her, but I suppose he might be…people say I look like him…”

Davos looked over at Gendry and Mya, then back at Bella. When you put the three of them in a room together, the resemblance was remarkable. Maybe Bella didn’t look as much like Gendry as Mya did – she was shorter, and her hair was curly – but she had Gendry’s nose, and Mya’s cheekbones, and all three of them had the same blue eyes transplanted on three different faces. Davos had spent enough years with Stannis and Shireen to recognize them as Baratheon eyes. _No matter if the mother is blonde or brunette, brown-eyed or green, all Baratheons have the look._ The coal always won.

Arya interrupted the moment when she laughed. “Seven hells Gendry, are we going to find a long lost sibling of yours in every kingdom?”

“It’s entirely possible.” Mya quipped. “Considering our father was said to have a bastard in every kingdom…Tell me, do you know any northern bastards that happen to look like my brother?”

Gendry ignored them and stared long and hard at Bella. “We’ve met before…at the Peach? With the Brotherhood Without Banners?”

Bella looked like she did not know what he was talking about for a moment, then she flushed crimson as the realization dawned. “Oh…oh m’lord, I swear I did not…I’m so sorry.”

“Good thing you didn’t sleep with her then.” Arya said, taking another sip of her tea. “You’re Baratheons, not Lannisters.”

Gendry got up from the table and pulled his cloak off the wall hook, moving to wrap it around Bella’s shoulders. “It’s all in the past. And you don’t have to call me _m’lord_ , you know. Come, sit with us.”

Bella still looked unsure. “I’m no Baratheon princess, m’lord. I’m a whore. That’s all I’ll ever be…”

“And this time last year I was a smith from Flea Bottom.” Gendry replied. “A few weeks ago Mya was taking care of mules in the Vale. Neither of us are exactly highborn, so you’ll fit right in. Mya and I don’t know what we’re doing either.”

“And besides,” Davos added. “You don’t have to be a whore anymore, not if you don’t want to. No daughter of King Robert should have to sell her body. You’ve got the blood of a noble and ancient family in your veins.”

Bella glanced from one of them to the other. “I’m not fit to be a lady. I can’t read or write my own name…I have no fine clothes or courtly manners…”

Mya stood up. “There’s time to learn all that. Come to the Stormlands with us. Until we arrive, you can wear things of mine.”

Bella eyed Mya’s current state of dress. “You want me to wear _trousers_? I’ll look like a man!”

Mya cocked her hip. “Well, it’s either look like a man or a slut.”

The two half-sisters stared at each other for a long moment, and Davos was suddenly nervous, but then they both burst out laughing. Davos breathed a sigh of relief. _Oh yes,_ He thought. _They are definitely Robert’s_ …

Tentatively, Bella went to sit next to Mya, and after a few moments Mya and Arya already had her endeared to them. They would be fast friends, to be sure. Lady Arya could make friends with anyone, and Mya had no pretensions. But Gendry hung back a moment, turning to look at Davos. “I used to think I was an only child, and then once I learned who my father was I thought all my siblings were dead. Now suddenly I’m the youngest of three.”

Davos smiled. “I’m glad that everything is working out for you, lad. You deserve a family.”

But that didn’t seem to be what Gendry was getting at. “Mya is the oldest, and Bella must be at least a year older than me. If the queen really wants the firstborn child to inherit, boy or girl, she should legitimize both of them, make Mya Lady of Storm’s End and Bella her heir. I don’t mind, really. All I wanted was a name so I could be with Arya, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need a lordship.”

Davos clamped him on the shoulder. “Lad, you still don’t give yourself enough credit. Queen Daenerys gave Storm’s End to you, because you helped save all our asses during the Great War. You think your sisters care about being Lady of Storm’s End? I daresay Lady Mya would laugh in your face if you tried to give it to her. She stills rolls her eyes when I even call her Lady Mya.”

Gendry cracked a smile at that. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You deserve this, lad. You deserve all of this and more.”  

* * *

**DAENERYS**

When she walked into the inn, women and girls everywhere turned their heads. They were both highborn and low, young and old – some were Frey girls, while others were peasants, prostitutes or craftsmen’s daughters who lived in the town nearest to the Twins. Daenerys stepped inside, Missandei following a step behind her, and all around her she could hear girls whispering. Some were staring at her with wide eyes, others were too shy or nervous to even look at her. One little girl who could not be more than five reached out to stroke the fabric of Daenerys’s dress, the silver silk just a shade darker than her hair, until her mother angrily yanked her back. “Harra!” She hissed. “What are you doing? She is a queen, you can’t touch her like that…”

Daenerys stopped, and knelt down to the girl’s level. “It’s quite all right. Do you like the dress?”

The little girl nodded. “You’re pretty.”

Daenerys smiled. “Thank you. You’re very pretty too.” The little girl blushed at that.

The crowd parted for her and she walked to the head of the room, sitting down in a great oaken chair by the fire. Missandei stood by her. “Presenting Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

The women and girls dropped into curtsies. “Rise, my friends.” Daenerys said. “I’m glad you all came here today. This is my first time in the Riverlands, you see, and I want to get to know you all. I want to know your hopes, your fears, your concerns. Whatever is in your hearts, I hope you will share it with me.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. “The king is not with you?” One of the Frey girls asked quietly.

Daenerys shook her head. “I wanted it to be just us women here today. This is a safe space for just us to talk.”

Whispers spread throughout the room, and women and girls looked at each other with apprehension. Finally, a plump woman dressed in peasant’s garb rose to her feet. “Your Grace,” She said. “Many of our husbands have gone off to fight in the wars. Some of them died, and others may be dead for all we know. We’ve been trying to run the shops or the farms while they’re gone, but business is poor, and if we cannot pay our taxes we lose our property. Lord Frey raised them on us before he died.”

Daenerys nodded her head. “I will speak to the new Lord Frey about this issue. It is not fair that your taxes should be raised on you when you have no means to pay them. And if any of you have lost your family’s businesses or properties unjustly, come to me. I will see them returned to you.” She looked around the room. “Anyone else?”

Eventually, other women began to speak up. A case of redspots was ravaging the town – Daenerys promised to send a maester to check up on the sick and give them medicine, while reassuring the women that those under the age of ten rarely died from redspots. Soldiers were coming into town and demanding that bread and ale be given to them for free, stealing from the villagers’ food – Daenerys assured that those responsible would be thoroughly reprimanded. One woman broke down in tears as she described the beating she had endured from her husband after he accused her of cheating on him, a claim which she vehemently denied. Daenerys rose from her seat to hug the poor thing, allowing her to sob into her shoulder as she promised that the guilty man would be punished with the same unlawful blows he’d doled on his wife. Daenerys also silently reminded herself to talk to Jon about reforming the laws on spousal punishment. Whether the woman cheated or not, it seemed wrong to Daenerys that the man should be allowed to strike her because of it.

Suddenly the doors to the inn burst open and everyone in the room turned to see what was the matter. A middle-aged woman stormed inside, dragging along behind her a frail, terrified looking girl in a raggedy dress. The girl’s eyes were red from crying. “Your Grace,” The woman demanded. “One of your men has hurt my daughter.”

There was whispering throughout the room. “I am sorry to hear that,” Daenerys said. “Hurt her how?”

“Raped her, Your Grace.”

Daenerys and Missandei exchanged a look, and Dany crossed the room to stand before the mother and daughter. The girl looked no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, by Daenerys’s estimations, and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Is this true?” Dany asked her gently.

“Ye…yes, Your Grace.” The girl sniffled. “He…he was a soldier, wearing a worn red tunic. He asked me how much, and I said I wasn’t for sale. But he was drunk, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I’m…well, I wasn’t strong enough to fight him so…” She dissolved into tears again.

“They’re camp followers, Your Grace.” Someone yelled. “Whores.”

Daenerys ignored them, and took the girl’s hands in her own. “It’s all right, my child. You’re safe now. You said the man had a red tunic on. Was there anything else you noticed about him?”

“Can’t you see this is upsetting her?” The mother said. “She’s been through enough. Don’t make her say anymore.”

“I’m sorry, but I need her to tell me what he looked like so I can find this man and punish him for what he did.”

The girl wiped her eyes. “He wasn’t very tall. He had blonde hair, and…and a beard. There was a patch on his tunic. It was a silver fist, clenched like this…” She replicated the gesture with her hand.

Daenerys glanced at Missandei. “A silver fist on scarlet is the sigil of House Glover, Your Grace.”

 _House Glover. So the man who did this is a northerner._ She would need to speak to Jon. “I will find the man who did this to you, I swear it. And he will be thoroughly punished.”

“The mother is a whore.” Someone or other shouted. “The girl is probably a whore as well.”

“It does not matter what she is.” Daenerys shot back. “If she said no, it is a rape.”

“And I am no whore, Your Grace.” The girl insisted. “I swear it! Mother only brought me along because she couldn’t leave me back in our village alone.”

“She is still so young, I did not think any man would touch her in that way.” The mother added. “She was a virgin, before that man grabbed her…”

The girl was physically shaking, and Daenerys brushed a lock of hair out of her face. She was a pretty girl – chestnut hair, big brown eyes, full lips – but small. Delicate. Vulnerable. “How old are you, sweetling?”

“Thirteen, Your Grace.”

Daenerys’s heart broke. She was only a child. “And what is your name?”

“Emma.”

“Emma,” Daenerys repeated. “That is a beautiful name.” She looked to the girl’s mother. “May I walk with her?”

The older woman looked hesitant at first, but then nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” She said, before kissing her daughter lightly on the brow. “I will be here waiting if you need anything.”

With that, the women’s court was over. Daenerys wrapped her arm around young Emma and beckoned for Missandei to follow her. The girl continued to cry on their walk back to the Twins. “You’ll be safe here with us.” Daenerys assured her. “I’m going to help you.”

The girl’s eyes flicked to Daenerys’s rounded belly, on display in her close-fitting silver gown. “Are you going to have a baby?”

Daenerys smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

But young Emma was not smiling. “I am too.”

A wash of sympathy came over Daenerys and when she looked at Missandei, she saw her friend’s face had drained of color. “Does your mother know?”

Emma shook her head. “No. But I’ve missed my moon blood, it’s always been on time before…and I’ve been getting sick…”

Daenerys pulled her closer to her. _She is but thirteen, only a child. Birth itself may kill her, and even if it doesn’t the trauma will be hard to bear…_ “Come. Let me help you.”

Instead her chamber, Jhiqui was beating wrinkles out of some dresses and Ornela was scrubbing the laundry in a wash basin. Jhiqui was the last of Dany’s Dothraki handmaidens still living, and Ornela was the Lhazareen woman she’d befriend with the _dosh khaleen_. “Jhiqui, Ornela,” She said. “This is Emma. She is to be our new friend.”

Jhiqui and Ornela smiled and nodded. “Welcome.”

“Jhiqui, go ask Lady Stark if she knows of any old cloaks Emma may wear. Perhaps she or one of her ladies has something they can spare – she will be too cold in only a thin dress.”

Jhiqui rose. “Yes, khaleesi.”

“Ornela,” Daenerys hesitated, her eyes meeting that of the Lhazareen woman’s. “Go to Maester Wolkan and tell him I need a cup of moon tea brewed.”

It was surely an odd request, but Ornela’s eyes flicked from Daenerys’s face to Emma’s, and she nodded. Daenerys remembered that she’d borne her daughter when she was Emma’s age. “Right away.” Ornela said, following Jhiqui out of the room.

“Emma, you may sleep in my bed tonight.”

Emma’s eyes went wide. “Your Grace, I would never presume to – ”

“I insist.” Daenerys turned to Missandei. “Here, help me make her comfortable.”

They took Emma’s arms and helped her sit down, Missandei pulling a blanket around her shoulders while Daenerys brushed her hair for her. Poor Emma was shaking under their touch. “You do not need to be afraid.” Missandei told her soothingly. “You are safe here with us.”

Ornela returned a few minutes later with the cup of moon tea, steaming hot with tansy still floating at the surface. “Thank you, Ornela.” Daenerys said, taking the cup from her before the Lhazareen woman left the chamber again. Daenerys turned to offer it to Emma. “You do not have to drink it if you do not want. It is your choice. If you don’t want it, I will go dump it out right now.”

Emma glanced from Daenerys’s face to the cup, staring into the depths of the brown liquid. “Will it hurt?”

Missandei shook her head. “There will be blood and cramping, but it will feel just like a bad stomachache.”

With trembling hands, Emma accepted the cup from Daenerys. “Thank you, Your Grace. Might I…?” She trailed off. “Might I drink it alone?”

“Of course.” Daenerys said without hesitation. She took Missandei’s arm and they both stood. “Come Missandei, she will need her rest.”

The two women quietly exited the chamber. “The poor girl.” Missandei whispered. “She is but a child, and she has endured so much.”

“I know.” Daenerys sighed. Unfortunately, she knew this was not a rare occurrence. _So many men hurt little girls._ It made her sick. “Missandei, we must find my husband. I will have every man in Lord Glover’s service brought before me if that’s what it takes.”

“Of course, Your Grace. What do you plan to do?”

“I will not stop until I find the man who did this,” Daenerys said, her violet eyes meeting Missandei’s dark ones. “And then I will kill him. Let everyone know what fate awaits a man who dares to hurt a girl in my camp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had someone comment on my Fanfiction.net asking if Edric Storm was in this, and the answer to that question is no. This is a combination of the book and show canon, and there's no way Edric could exist in the TV show verse and not have been brought up. The show combined his role with Gendry's, so he doesn't exist in my story. Just Mya and Bella! 
> 
> Next chapter: Jon, Tyrion, Sam, & Arya.


	7. The Inn at the Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon executes justice; Tyrion needs to choose between his heart and his head; Sam feels left in the dark; Arya has a proposition for Gendry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Gendrya and Braime shipping friends...y'all still breathing after 8x02?

**JON**

It took the rest of that day and into the next for them to locate the guilty man.  

After word got around that the king and queen were looking for a raper, Gawen Glover caught one of his men trying to sneak out of the camp under the cover of darkness. The man was immediately apprehended by two of Lord Glover’s guards, and now Jon and Daenerys were waiting in the fields outside the castle for him to be brought to them.

The man matched the exact description of who they were looking for: he wasn’t tall, but not particularly short either, being Jon’s height or slightly under. He had blonde hair and a thick beard of the same hue, and a strong body that no teenage girl would’ve been able to defend herself against. He looked older than Jon and Lord Glover, probably closer to thirty than twenty. By Jon’s feet, Ghost moved into a protective stance and snarled low. _The wolf is a good judge of character._

“On behalf of my house, Your Grace,” Glover said. “I deeply apologize for what my man has done. Bryen has been in my family’s service since I was eight, I never would’ve thought he…” He trailed off, his voice breaking.

Daenerys brought the young victim forward, the girl clutching to her mother as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. “Emma,” Daenerys said softly. “Is this the man who hurt you?”

The girl stared at him for a moment, then burst into tears, and buried her face into Dany’s neck. “Yes, Your Grace. That’s him…I’d recognize his face anywhere…”

Dany ran a hand through her hair and shushed her. “It’s all right, you’re safe now…you are very brave to do this…”

Jon turned to look at the guilty man. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The raper – Bryen, Lord Glover had called him – only shrugged his shoulders. “There’s no point in lying. I had sex with her, it’s true. I don’t regret any of it.”

“You should be ashamed.” Lord Glover said. “After all these years, I thought I knew you…you’ve brought shame upon yourself, upon my house. You shall die for this.”

Jon stared into the guilty man’s eyes and felt chilled. There was no remorse there, no emotion at all really. _There must be evil in him if he could such a thing to an innocent child._ Jon had executed men before, had faced off against the Night King and his army, and sometimes he still found himself amazed by the horrors mankind was capable of.

Behind him, Drogon and Rhaegal were rearing their heads and roaring, ready for what was to come. “So, are you going to feed me to your dragons, Your Grace?” Bryen said. “Is that how it should end for me?”

“I think burning alive is a reasonable punishment, considering the crime you’ve admitted to.”

The man met Jon’s eyes. “I am of the North, as are you. I was born just north of the wolfswood, grew up in a village there, and I passed years of my life at Deepwood Motte. Until this journey, I had never ridden south of the Neck. I’m a northerner, so let me die like one.”

Jon looked at Daenerys, who nodded her head. The raper would die either way, and they had still been in the North when he raped Emma. It was the laws of the North he’d broken, so he would die accordingly. “Very well.” Jon looked at the guards holding the man. “Place his head down on that rock over there.”

The guards did as they were told and shoved Bryen down onto the ground, one of them turning his head sideways as Jon removed Longclaw from its sheath. “I, King Jon of Houses Targaryen and Stark, alongside my wife Queen Daenerys Targaryen, do hereby find you guilty of the crime of rape and sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?”

His head unmoving from the block, Bryen’s eyes flicked from Jon to young Emma’s sobbing face. “I daresay,” He said. “Deflowering that little beauty was worth it all.”

He heard the sharp intake of Daenerys’s breath, and Gawen Glover looked disgusted. Anger pulsing through his veins, Jon lifted Longclaw and brought it down on the man’s neck, slicing through flesh, sinew and bone in one clean stroke. There was a burst of red blood as the head separated from the body.

Young Emma had stopped crying now as Jon picked up the severed head by the hair and walked it over to Daenerys and the women. He presented the head to the girl’s mother. “Justice for your daughter, my lady.”

The woman stared at the head unflinchingly. “I thank you, Your Grace.” She said. “This cannot take back what has happened to my girl, but at least he can never touch another.” Jon did not know how she was managing to remain so strong – his daughter had not even been born yet, and if any man ever tried to harm her, Jon would make the bastard suffer. Men who abused little girls were truly scum.

As for Emma, when the head was shown to her, she could not help but smile.

Afterwards some of Glover’s men took the body away, and Emma went back to her tent with her mother. Looking at Daenerys though, Jon could tell his wife was still troubled, and Jon moved to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Come on,” He whispered. “Let’s go for a ride.”

He knew that Daenerys felt at ease on dragonback, and Jon rarely had any alone time with his wife these days except for during the night. Jon sent Ghost back to camp with Lord Glover and then they both boarded Drogon and Rhaegal. “ _Soves_.”

Jon had ridden Rhaegal a dozen times by now, but the feeling of flying was something he did not think he’d ever get used to. It was magnificent: the feeling of that great body under yours, the wind blowing through your hair, the knowledge that you were free to go anywhere in the world you desired. Flying was freedom. Daenerys quickly got ahead of him and she flew Drogon around in circles, causing Jon to chuckle. _Show off._

They flew over rolling plains, evergreen forests, rivers that were clear blue or green from moss. The ground was dusted with white from when it had snowed a few days earlier, and the air was cold and reinvigorating. Eventually they came across a long stretch of empty plain, and Daenerys began to land Drogon, Jon following. Once they’d landed they walked hand-in-hand across the plain, leaving Drogon and Rhaegal to hunt for a snack for themselves. “Where do you think we are?” Daenerys asked.

There did not seem to be another soul for miles, and the sky was turning cloudy, which meant they could not stay long. It would probably start snowing again, and in the distance he could see some far away towers. “I think that’s Harrenhal.” Jon said, pointing. “We must be north of the God’s Eye.”

“We’ll be marching our men in this direction before long. It’s not a long ride to King’s Landing from here.” Jon kissed the top of Daenerys’s head, but he noticed she seemed deep in thought again. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What sort of something?”

Daenerys pulled away to face him, still holding onto him with one hand. “I told Tyrion once that I want to break the wheel. I didn’t come to Westeros to be more of the same. These people here are our responsibility Jon, yours and mine, and I can’t help but feel like I’m failing them.”

“Dany, you’re not failing them. You’re a good queen.”

“I try to be. Listening to the women and girls tell their stories yesterday, my heart broke for them. When Emma’s mother told me what had happened to her daughter, I could not help but blame myself, feel that I should’ve protected her somehow. These people are our subjects and they’re suffering, but they feel like they don’t have a voice. There are more smallfolk than lords in this country, but only the lords sit on the Small Council.”  

“So are you suggesting that we should have smallfolk on the council? We’ve already made all our appointments.”

“Not exactly.” Daenerys said. “Before I left Meereen, I decided it would be best for the people to elect their own leaders. What I’m proposing is not the same, but I want the people to have a voice in the government. I think we should have two bodies – one of elected lords and one of elected commoners, to approve legislation and establish a balance of power. What do you think?”

“It’s a good idea.” Jon wrapped an arm around Dany’s waist and pulled her closer to him. She could not repress her laughter as he kissed her on the mouth. “I mean it when I say you’re a good queen. You’re smart, and brave, and kind. Sometimes I look at you and I still can’t believe you’re really mine.”

A blush creeped up her cheeks at the compliment. “I just want to make this a better world. For us, for our children, for everyone.”

“It will be.”

Somehow, despite all the bad things in this world, Daenerys Targaryen never ceased to make him believe that was all possible.

* * *

**TYRION**

They set up camp not far north of the Trident after five days of traveling in the snow. Tyrion rode in the carriage with Lady Sansa and her aunt Roslin Tully. He tried to read, and the women tried to sew, but the roads would jostle them too frequently for it to be comfortable, and Roslin’s son was constantly asking when they were going to camp for the night. “How far we from Riverrun?” Little Axel would ask, tugging on his mother’s skirts. “Are we going to see Father soon?”

Lady Tully tried to answer his questions as much as she could, but there were no definite answers. They were on their way to Riverrun, slowly but surely, where they would free Edmure and hopefully gain more forces. After that, they’d head towards Harrenhal where they would make their final preparations for the battle, and then they’d storm King’s Landing from there. Hopefully Gendry Baratheon could take the Stormlands, and Tyrion wondered if he could get any houses from the Westerlands to their side. _My sister may sit the Iron Throne,_ He thought. _But my brother is Tywin Lannister’s golden son._ Perhaps that would mean something to the westerners.

One day they stopped for an afternoon break outside of Fairmarket and Axel Tully burst eagerly from the carriage before his mother could even call for him to slow down. “Lady Sansa!” He called to his cousin. “Come play with me!”

“Axel,” Roslin Tully said. “I don’t think Lady Stark wants to –”

Sansa cut her off. “Actually, I’d love to. What are we playing Axel?”

The little boy grinned. “Come-into-my-castle! I’ll be the Lord of Riverrun, and you’ll be my vassal!”

Sansa hiked up her skirts and joined Axel, getting snow all over her hem as she knelt to play with him. Axel giggled wildly as Sansa acted out her part, folding her hands and overdramatically begging to be let into the castle. Tyrion stood back and watched the scene, unable to hide the smile that came to his face. The boy looked so much like Sansa, for a moment he could not help but imagine what she would look like playing this game with her own children.

Roslin Tully noticed, and smiled at him. “She’d make a good mother, don’t you think? And a good wife.”

Tyrion did not take his eyes off of Sansa as he answered. “Yes, indeed.”

Tonight Tyrion was alone in his tent, writing letters until his hands were sore. They all had the same general message, calling upon the lords and ladies of the Westerlands to join their cause and accept Jaime as the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock. One went to Lady Lefford, another to Lord Crakehall, another to Lord Marbrand, and many others. Normally Tyrion stamped his letters with his Hand seal, but tonight he choose to use a Lannister lion sigil instead. Despite that, he was not optimistic any of the lords would heed his call. _They were loyal to my father,_ He thought. _And they will always see me as his murderer._

It was late and he was placing the seal on the last scroll when he was surprised by the sound of his tent flap opening. He expected to find Queen Daenerys, Jaime or maybe even Bronn, and Tyrion jumped in his seat when he turned and saw Sansa Stark. The Lady of Winterfell was wearing only a nightgown under her cloak, and her red hair hung loose. It was long and thick, and he wondered what it would be like to run his hands through it.

“My lord,” Sansa said, a sense of urgency in her tone. “Might I speak with you?”

Rarely was Tyrion Lannister at a loss for words, but now he did not know what to say. “Umm…yes, of course. Sit down.” Sansa crossed the tent and sat on top of his trunk, wrapping her cloak further around her. “May I ask why you are still awake at the hour of the wolf?”

“I've had a lot on my mind,” Sansa said. “And there was something I wanted to discuss with you.” Her blue eyes roved around his tent and a smile came to her lips when she saw he was wearing the cloak she’d made for him back at Winterfell. “I’m glad you like my gift.”

Absentmindedly Tyrion traced the lion design she’d sewn with his finger. “It keeps me warm.” He said, and then he felt stupid for not thinking of something better to say.

But Sansa did not dwell on it, as she looked down and cleared her throat. “Harrold Hardyng has formally made me an offer of marriage.”

“Oh?” Tyrion was not surprised. Their entire journey down from the Twins, Harry the Heir had been less than discreet in his quest for Sansa’s favor. When they stopped for breaks, he would always appear seemingly out of nowhere to help Sansa out of the carriage. He asked her frequently if she wanted to pet his horse or feed it an apple. He would always tell Sansa how beautiful she looked even if she had not washed her hair in days. (Not that Tyrion disagreed with him there – Sansa always looked radiant.) Harrold Hardyng was determined to woo her, no matter what it took.  

“I know you don’t like Ser Harrold very much,” Sansa said. “And I will readily admit that he has… _flaws_. But he’s made some very good points. If I married him, I would have a husband of guaranteed fertility who would not try to demean my role as Lady of Winterfell, and who could possibly someday make me Lady of the Eyrie as well. An alliance between the North and the Vale makes sense, and they’ve been very loyal to me there.”   

Tyrion could not refute any of her points. “I agree, it would be politically wise for you.” But despite that, his stomach still felt sick at the thought of Sansa becoming Harrold Hardyng’s bride. He wasn’t good enough for her. But then again, in his mind, no man would ever be good enough for her. Not even himself.

“So,” Sansa continued. “You see…I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no logical reason why I should refuse him.”

Tyrion swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I agree.” He said, his voice thick. _She’s going to marry that man._ He rose from his chair, expecting that Sansa would going to leave now. “Should I walk you out?”

But when Sansa stood up, she did not take a single step, instead staring down at Tyrion with thoughtful eyes. “Tyrion,” She whispered his name. “Give me a reason not to marry Harrold Hardyng.”

She was staring at him, and all Tyrion could hear was the sound of their breathing. He knew this was his moment. All he had to do was say it – _I love you_ – and Sansa would be his. He could take her into his arms and kiss her, make her his wife again, for real this time. But when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

Sansa was a grown woman, a beautiful woman, a powerful woman. She was smart and capable of making up her own mind. _Harry the Heir can offer her things that I cannot._ He could give her wealth, titles, and status, make her the envy of every lady in the Vale and some of the ladies in the Riverlands and the Reach. And what could Tyrion give her? No matter how much he tried to build a life for himself, people still whispered about him and laughed behind his back. He had no titles, and half the country still branded him a traitor and a kinslayer. He could not argue with them about that last part. He _was_ a kinslayer, no matter how justified he’d felt in that instant. And Harrold Hardyng could give Sansa beautiful, healthy, golden-haired children, whereas Tyrion could not even stand the thought of potentially passing his affliction on to a child. _I murdered my mother in childbed. I will not force Sansa into her fate, or make her the laughing stock of Westeros. She deserves so much more than a crippled imp…_

Tyrion was unable to meet her eyes as he finally spoke. “I cannot.”

A long silence followed. “Very well.” Sansa nodded and turned to go, averting her eyes. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion. That’s all I needed to hear.”

* * *

**SAMWELL**

“Seven hells. So he really did that to a thirteen-year-old?”

Sam nodded his head as he poured two cups of ale, handing one off to Edd. “I know, it’s awful.” He sat down across from Edd – they were in Jon’s tent, waiting for him to return. “At least Jon and the queen took care of it.”

“What would even possess someone to do something like that?”

“Why do people do any type of horrible thing?” Sam asked. “Raping girls, killing good men, burning children…”

He was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Both Sam and Edd bolted their feet, and they came face to face with the High Priestess. Even though it was freezing outside, Lady Kinvara wore a red gown that exposed her chest, a ruby dangling from her throat. “My lady,” Sam blurted out, feeling flustered. When he glanced at Edd, he saw that his friends was trying not to stare at the priestess’s breasts. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I am no lady.” The woman said, smiling wolfishly. “I came to speak to His Grace. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Edd cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other. “He’ll be here any moment now. Would you like to sit down?”

He offered her his chair, but Kinvara shook her head. “I’d rather stand.” She walked across the tent and absentmindedly picked up objects from the table, tracing her finger across a quill or a map. Sam and Edd only gave each other confused looks.

A few minutes later the tent flap opened again and Jon walked inside, pulling off his gloves. “Do we have any ale? I think I need a drink, or two, or ten – ” He paused and cut himself off when he saw Kinvara. “My lady. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes. I’d like to speak to you about something, if you could spare a few moments of your time.”

Jon looked tired, and he probably didn’t want to have this conversation right now, but he nodded anyway. “Certainly.”

Jon pulled out a chair and Edd poured him a cup of ale, filling it generously until some of it spilled over. Lady Kinvara still did not sit down but walked around to stand before Jon. “Your Grace,” She said. “You know that the Lord of Light has been kind to you. He has shown me that you are his chosen one, his champion on the earth. I have faithfully served your cause as he would have wanted.”

“And I thank you for that,” Jon said. “The Fiery Hand has been very helpful.”

“But recently, the Lord has shown me something else. I came here to communicate his wishes to you.”

Sam glanced at Jon. _There is no Lord of Light._ He thought. _Bran told me and Melisandre._ The night before the battle at Winterfell, Bran had told Sam that there were no gods – no R’hllor, no Faith of the Seven, or any other religion that might exist. All gods were but legendary men who had been deified by stories, and all of the red women’s visions came from this world, not another one.

Jon placed down his cup. “Are you making demands, Lady Kinvara?”

“Let’s not call it demanding.” Kinvara said, her lips forming a smile. Maybe she was trying to look innocent and accommodating, but Sam could tell: she wanted something. From the looks on Edd and Jon’s faces, they seemed to know too. “R’hllor is the one true god, and you are his chosen. And if R’hllor’s chosen one should sit the throne of Westeros, then he should not rule over a land of heretics, should he not?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “What are you getting at?” Edd asked.

Kinvara was silent for a moment, but Sam thought he already knew. “She wants you to make R’hllor the official religion of Westeros,” He told Jon. “Once you are king.”

Jon looked at Kinvara. “Is that what you are asking me?”

The priestess nodded. “R’hllor won the war against the dead. It is time the people of Westeros accept him as their lord and savior.”

“There is no R’hllor,” Sam blurted out, and Kinvara turned to him, her dark eyes wide from shock. “Bran told me, and Melisandre.”

“Lady Melisandre died so that Jon Snow could fulfill his destiny! The Lord of Light gave him his victory against the darkness! To continue to worship your Seven or your trees or whatever it is you do, is to deny the power of the one true god.” She looked at Jon, fire in her eyes as well as her soul. “R’hllor is not just my god. He is everyone’s god. He is your god. I am willing to stay here in this strange land, to become your High Priestess and teach our god’s holy ordinances to all who live in ignorance. But if you will not give our god what he wants, and make sure that all the people of the Seven Kingdoms know his power, then I’m afraid I can help you no longer. I will take the Fiery Hand and I will return to Volantis.”

Sam did not know what to say to that, and Edd’s face blanched. They both looked at Jon, and to his credit their friend remained perfectly calm. He was staring down at the ground, his jaw set, and he did not look up at Kinvara as he spoke. “Go then.”

Sam saw Kinvara’s entire expression change at his words. _She did not expect to lose._ He realized. “Your Grace,” She said, stepping forward. “I meant what I said. I will go now, with the Fiery Hand – ”

Jon did not let her finish. “ _Go_.” He repeated. “I thank you for your help against the Night King, Lady Kinvara. But now it is time for you to go back to Volantis – where you belong.” He stood up and offered his hand for her to shake. “I believe this shall be our last meeting.”

Kinvara only looked down at his hand and then hiked up her skirts, looking disgusted. “You have lost the Lord’s favor. See how you far you get without him.” Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the tent.

Edd looked at Jon. “You’re just going to let her go?”

“She is not Westerosi. I have no power over her, and no authority to keep her here.”

“But she’s going to take her army of fire worshippers back to Essos.”

Jon sat back down, and took a long swig from his cup. “Let her. She only has 1,000 men. I will not sell the religious freedom of millions of Westerosi just for that.”

They drank together for another hour after that, trying not to talk about the war. They reminisced about their time together on the Wall, the things they’d seen, and the friends and enemies alike who had come and gone, until Jon finally stood up and said he had more work to do tonight. Rest never lasted for long when you were the king.

When Sam slipped back into his own tent not too long after dark, he found Gilly already asleep, curled up on their cot with Little Sam in her arms. The boy was pressed up against her, his face buried into her chest, as Gilly slept with her arms around him, her head pressed gently on top of his. Sam smiled to himself and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Little Sam’s head, then pulled the blankets up around Gilly.

His wife stirred, letting out a soft groan, one of her eyes opening. “Sam?”

Sam shushed her gently. “Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.” It was not particularly late, but he’d noticed that Gilly had been more tired lately even if she would not admit she was. He thought that perhaps the long journey south was taking a toll on her, but then again their journey going down to Castle Black shortly after Little Sam was born had been more perilous, and the boy had been more dependent on her then…still, he did not think much of it.

“Sam…” Gilly tried to sit up, but in his sleep Little Sam’s arms tightened around her neck, and she laid back down. “There’s something I think we should talk about.”

Even though they were whispering, Sam could hear the strain of concern in her voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Not _wrong_ , exactly…”

“What is it?”

Gilly paused, and through the darkness Sam could make out the uncertainty in her brown eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Never mind. I’m being stupid.”

“You’re definitely not stupid.” Sam assured her, kissing her on the cheek. “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Goodnight Sam.”

“Goodnight Gilly.”

Once his wife had closed her eyes again and Sam was confident she was asleep, he got up to change for bed himself. He wondered what it was she had wanted to tell him…

Sam only shook his head to himself. Whatever it was, they’d talk later.

* * *

**ARYA**

“Gendry needs 6,000 men.”

Jon looked up from the map on the table in front of him as Arya burst into his tent unannounced. “Come again?”

“Symun Fossoway is taking 5,000 men with him to the Stormlands, so Gendry needs at least a thousand more. Here, you can read it yourself.” She handed Jon the raven scroll that she’d received from King’s Landing, written in the messy scrawl of Jenny from the Fingers. After Arya sent the girl south, she’d received letters to let her know that Jenny had found work at the Red Keep as a washerwoman, and though she’d never physically been in Queen Cersei’s presence, she listened to how Cersei’s handmaids would gossip to each other when they dropped off that week’s laundry.

“Why is he only taking 5,000 men? The Reach should still have 45, maybe even 50,000 soldiers.”

“Apparently Cersei doesn’t think taking the Stormlands will be difficult – what a surprise she’ll have when Gendry and our men show up.” 

Jon read the scroll in silence for a moment, sighed, and then handed it back. “I can spare 5,000 for him. Lord Arstan Selmy has promised Daenerys that he’ll lead a host of 1,000 to join Gendry when he arrives. The Stormlands lost a majority of their fighting men during the War of the Five Kings, and some houses were not willing to risk their men for a baseborn Baratheon they’ve never met.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “Which houses?”

Jon laughed hollowly and looked up at her. “I know what you’re thinking Arya, and you can’t possibly kill them all.”

“If they refuse to fight for Gendry – their _rightful lord_ – that’s treason.”

“Yes, but we may need them. I’d rather try to sway them over to our cause than cut off their heads and lose potential support.”

Jon was right, but Arya still hmphed. “Well, I’ll never trust them. If they’re not willing to risk their lives for their rightful lord, after all the years House Baratheon has protected them, then clearly they lack honor or bravery – or both.”

“You don’t have to like them, little sister. You just have to cooperate so that Gendry can have the best chance he can. Then, if they still refuse to submit after we’ve won this war, I won’t stop you from doling out punishment.”

“All right.” She reluctantly agreed. “Tell the men to meet Gendry and Ser Davos tomorrow morning near the ruby ford to march to the Stormlands.”

Jon gave her a confused look. “Why are you going on this detour, exactly?”

Arya could not hide the smile that sprang to her lips then. “To visit an old friend. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jon.”

“Have a good night tonight, little sister.”

They were not far north of their destination, and so Arya and Gendry left camp in the late afternoon. The Seaworths were with them, as were Bella and Mya – Bella did not know how to ride a horse so she sat behind Gendry on the saddle, clinging to him like she was terrified she was going to fall off. At one point Mya picked a handful of mud off the ground and threw it at her, causing Bella to scream. When she saw her sister laughing she scowled. “It’s not _funny_ , you little – ” But Mya only laughed harder, and Arya had to suppress her own giggles.

When they arrived at the inn, there were only two other horses tied up outside and they disembarked, leaving their mounts in the stables. The first thing Arya smelled upon walking inside was the tantalizing aroma of bread, and a smile came instantly to her face. _Hot Pie_.

This morning for their journey they’d all dressed themselves in plain clothes, so as not to attract any attention, and Ser Davos took the lead. He walked up to the innkeep, a tall girl about Jon’s age with brown hair pulled out of her face. “Good evening,” He said. “My family and I are looking for some rooms for the night.”

The innkeep glanced at them, and Arya discreetly gripped Needle, hidden under her cloak. They probably looked strange, an older man and woman with seven young people they claimed to be their children, some of whom looked alike and others not at all. Thankfully though, the young woman did not question them. “How many?”

“Three should suffice.”

“Of course. And I’m guessing you’ll be wanting supper too?”

Davos thanked her and she told him how much. Davos paid her and the innkeep led them to a table. The only other occupants of the place were two haggard, middle-aged men – Arya looked at them and could not see any weapons. “Willow!” The innkeep yelled into the back room. “Quit flirting and come pour our guests some ale!”

A skinny brown-haired girl emerged from the backroom. She looked very much like the innkeep, only younger by four or five years, so Arya thought maybe they were sisters. Willow came around to pour them all drinks. “Our cook is making pork pie, will that suffice?”

“Quite,” Davos said. “Thank you, m’lady.”

“I’m no lady.” Willow’s eyes scanned them and suddenly landed on their packs. Arya realized too late that one of them had come undone and Gendry’s hammer was now peeking out. “That’s a nice hammer. Where’d you steal it from?”

Gendry squared his jaw. “I didn’t steal it, I made it.”

“Did you now…” Before Willow could say any more, her sister elbowed her in the ribs and told her to get back in the kitchens to fetch the food.

“Do you think you could tell your cook we’d like to speak with him?” Arya asked.

Both Willow and the innkeep looked surprised by that question. “Why?”

“Just tell him there’s a girl who would like to thank him for the bread.”

“What?”

“He’ll know what I mean.”

The two middle-aged men had finished eating now and got up from their table to go upstairs. Willow went back into the kitchens, while her sister went back to work. “You don’t think they know who we are, do they?” Mya whispered.

“They may not believe our story, but we’re their paying customers, and they can’t prove anything.” Davos said. “I wouldn’t worry.”

“Yeah,” Devan Seaworth laughed. “And besides, you think that little girl can take on all of us – ”

He was interrupted by the sound of a crossbow loading.

Bella shrieked, while Lady Marya pulled Stannis and Steffon under her arms. Arya and Gendry both immediately jumped to their feet, Arya unsheathing Needle and pulling her dagger out of her boot as Gendry grabbed his hammer. Willow was now standing in the kitchen doorway, the crossbow pointed in their direction, and her sister screamed at her. “ _Willow_! What are you _doing_?”

“They’ve got weapons, Jeyne.” She told the innkeep, not tearing her eyes away from Arya and Gendry. “They think they can come here to rape us and steal from us? Not a chance.”

“We’re not here to rape you or steal from you!” Gendry insisted. “Put the crossbow down.”

“Not until you two put yours down first!”

The kitchen door opened again and that was when Arya finally saw Hot Pie. He was carrying a tray of food and nearly crashed into Willow, barely catching the tray before it could fall from his hands. “What’s going on here?”

“They’ve come here to murder us all!” Willow said. “They asked to see you, and they’ve got weapons!”

“What do you – ” Hot Pie’s eyes met theirs and he cut himself off, looking surprised. “Arry? Gendry? What are you two doing here?”

Willow looked to him. “You know them?”

“They’re old friends of mine. It’s all right, you can put the crossbow down.”

Willow gave Arya and Gendry another wary look, but then lowered her weapon and stormed back into the kitchen with a huff. Arya sighed in relief and both she and Gendry put their weapons down. So much for discretion.

Hot Pie came over and put the tray down on the table. “It’s so good to see you both.” He said, catching Arya off guard as he pulled both of them in for a hug. “Gods, I’m – I’m so glad you’re both alive! When we heard what happened with the dead at Winterhell – ”

“Winter _fell_.”

“ – I didn’t know if you’d survived or not! And Gendry – ” Hot Pie shook his head. “I haven’t seen you in so long. I was worried about you. How are you?”

Gendry smiled. “Still alive, it seems.” He said, and Arya squeezed his hand. It was an action that did not go unnoticed by Hot Pie.

“The two of you are – ?”

“Promised.”

Hot Pie glanced from one of them to the other. “Promised to what?”

Arya rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “We’re getting married, Hot Pie.”

If Hot Pie was surprised before, now he looked like his eyes were about to bulge out of his head. “You’re getting married? To each other?” He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself and Arya worried that she might have to catch him if he fainted, but then she realized that he was laughing. “Seven hells, I always knew there was something between you two! Only Lommy didn’t believe me, and Anguy said I must be mad, and now…I’m so happy for you both. Eat, eat, we have to celebrate.”

Since the inn wasn’t busy, Arya and Gendry insisted on Hot Pie sitting down with them for a while, and made the necessary introductions. Hot Pie seemed to be overwhelmed by all the information being thrown at him. “So you’re some fancy important lord now, huh?” He said, causing Gendry to chuckle.

“I don’t feel like one. What about you? Do they treat you well here?”

“Very well. Jeyne is a good boss, and I’ve had plenty of practice with cooking and baking. And Willow…” Hot Pie trailed off, and Arya swore she saw him blush. “Well, she’s Willow.”

Arya smiled to herself and took a sip of her ale. She recognized the look of love when she saw it – Gendry had the same look on his face when he was talking about her. “We wanted to ask you something. Gendry’s going to Storm’s End to become lord, and once we take it we’re going to need a staff. If you want to come along, you can have free range of the kitchens, and make all the wolf and stag-shaped bread you want.” Hot Pie laughed at that. “But it’s your choice. If you’re happy here, that’s all that matters.”

Hot Pie nodded and hesitated before answering. “Can I sleep on it? As much as I’d like to come with you, I have a life here too.”

“Of course. And even if you don’t want to go now, we’ll always have a place for you there. You’re our friend, Hot Pie. Always.”

After they ate they all went up to their rooms for the night, and Jeyne the innkeep was now blushing and stammering at Gendry since she knew he was a lord. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything better for you, Lord Baratheon.” She said as she lead him and Arya to a room. “It’s been a long time since we had a man of your status in our establishment – ”

“It’s quite all right.” Gendry insisted. “You’ve been very kind.”

“And oh, I’m so sorry about what my sister did! Since the war started, it’s been rough out here. Especially for girls…”

“You don’t have to explain.” Arya said. She knew from experience how dangerous the roads could be. “Can I ask you though – how much do the smallfolk know about the war out here?” When Jeyne had heard Hot Pie call Gendry by name, she’d known who he was. If Jeyne knew that Gendry was the newly legitimized Lord Baratheon, then Cersei Lannister might too.

“Oh, not that much m’lady. I always hear talk from the people who pass through. A couple moons back there was a whole rush of people trying to get out of King’s Landing and go somewhere else – they seem to really hate Queen Cersei.”

Jeyne left them, and Gendry popped open the door to the chamber. It had a low ceiling, a large mattress stuffed with straw in the middle of the room, and a single candle burning in the window. “This will do for the night.”

Arya took her betrothed by the hands. “Are you sure I can’t go with you? I can hold my own, you know I can. I don’t want us to be apart.”

“It’s not a matter of if you can hold your own or not. As much as I wish I could take you with me too, Jon and Sansa will need you back at camp, and I don’t want to put your life at risk if I don’t have to. I already have Mya and Bella to worry about, and it will only be for a little while.”

_We can hope._ Arya thought, but she tried to push that away from her mind. She needed to believe that Gendry would be able to take Storm’s End and return to her. The thought of losing him now was almost too much for her to bear, and it made her sick at heart knowing they would have to part in the morning. Gendry was the love of her life. They were family as much as Jon and Sansa were to her, or Mya and Bella were to him. After they’d reunited at Winterfell, she had hoped that they would never have to say goodbye again.

But before Arya could say anything more, she was surprised by barking, followed by a dog barreling towards her.

A huge, shaggy mutt jumped up on Arya and licked her face. She could not help but laugh at the feeling of his wet tongue. “Down, boy.” She whispered, scratching him behind the ears. She had not seen a dog with the men downstairs earlier, but it must’ve been one of theirs, because she’d seen no other occupants of the inn but them.

“Dog!” Someone called. “What are you doing?”

The man who came to claim the animal was not either of the men Arya saw earlier, but a hunched older man with thinning grey hair. He was wearing the robes of a septon, but they were worn and dirty. “I’m so sorry, m’lady.” He said to her, grabbing the dog by the fur on the back of his neck. “Sit.” The dog did as he was told and wagged his tail happily, his tongue sticking out of his mouth.

“It’s quite all right.” Arya said. “What is your dog’s name?”

“Oh, I just call him Dog.”

“That is quite an unusual name for a pet.” Gendry said.

“Well, I think he probably has another name, but he hasn’t told me what it is yet.”

Arya could not help but laugh at that. “I did not know there was anyone else at this inn. I only saw our horses and those of two other men.”

“I do not ride a horse, m’lady.” The septon said. “I walk around the Riverlands, preaching the good word. Dog keeps me company and protects me from anyone who might wish me harm. No outlaws nor wolves will bother me with Dog around. He’s tougher than he looks.” Dog yipped in response.

“Yes,” Arya laughed. “He is very terrifying…”

Around his neck, the septon wore a small hammer pendant. “I am a Smith’s man, m’lady.” The man explained when he saw Arya staring. “Yes, all young men admire the Warrior, but in my many years I’ve seen it is truly the Smith who puts the world of men to right.”

“And I am a Smith’s woman,” Arya said. “Seeing as I’m marrying one.” She nodded at Gendry.

“Well, congratulations.” The septon said. “You two seem to make a fine couple. It’s always nice to see young love. I shall keep you both in my prayers.” He grabbed his dog and led him back into their room. “Goodnight and seven blessings to you.”

“And the same to you, Your Holiness.”

The septon turned to go, and Gendry asked her if she was ready to go to bed, but a thought suddenly dawned on Arya. “Your Holiness!” She yelled after the septon. “Do you know how to perform marriages?”

The septon paused and turned back around. “I’ve done quite a few in my day. Why do you ask?”

Arya bit her lip. “Could you marry us?”

Both the septon and Gendry looked at her in surprise. “Arya,” Gendry said. “What are you talking about?”

Arya turned to face him and squeezed his hands in her own. “You love me, right?”

“You know I do.”

“And you want to spend the rest of your life with me, don’t you?”

“ _Yes_ , but Arya…” He shook his head. “I thought you said you wanted our wedding to be special, to be at the right moment.”

“It will be special,” Arya insisted. “Because it’ll be the two of us, committing to spend our lives together. Gendry, I love you and this could be our last night together for a long time. I’m already yours, and you’re already mine, so…let’s make it official before you go. Let’s spend our last night together as husband and wife.”

“But your family…”

“Camp isn’t that far away. Jon and Sansa could ride here in two hours, maybe less if they go fast. Your sisters are here, and Ser Davos and his family, and even Hot Pie – all our family and closest friends. What else do we really need?”

The septon cleared his throat. “To answer your question m’lady, I’m willing to perform the ceremony. That is, if the two of you really want to do this…”

Arya looked at Gendry again. “So,” She said. “Do you want to get married tonight?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Jaime, Sansa, Arya, and Gendry. We're gonna have ourselves a wedding, folks! And perfect timing too, because we might need a nice, happy chapter after the pain and devastation 8x03 will surely bring...


	8. Until the End of Our Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime considers something dishonorable; Sansa thinks about her future; Arya and Gendry make a commitment.

**JAIME**

A raven arrived for the king and Lady Stark at ten o’clock, in the black of night. It was from the Crossroads Inn, to inform them that their sister and the Baratheon boy had decided to get married that night. “Sansa and I are going to ride out there.” The king told Tyrion. “Daenerys is already asleep in our tent, so I’m not going to disturb her. If she wakes up and asks where I am, will you tell her where we’ve gone?”

“Certainly.”

So Jon Snow and Sansa Stark had their horses brought to them without delay and set off, Lady Stark also bringing with her the wedding dress she’d been working on for her sister, which still needed to be hemmed. Jaime did not know if Lady Arya would agree to wear it anyway.

He wasn’t tired, so he, Tyrion and Bronn sat around a fire pit outside of the king and queen’s tent. Jaime peeked his head in and saw that the queen was still sleeping peacefully – her pregnancy had left her more tired than usual as of late – with her handmaids all also asleep in their pallets. He noticed the little girl who the queen had come across in the women’s court was now among them – Daenerys Targaryen had insisted on bringing the girl into her service, and employing her mother as a washerwoman. They’d had no need of a new washerwoman, but Jaime figured he knew what the queen’s real motives were.

He returned to sit by the fire, where Bronn had popped open a flask of blackberry wine. “We may not be going to this wedding, but let’s still have a toast.” He raised the flask. “To the future Lord and Lady Baratheon. May their health be good, their lives be long, and their marriage bed not turn stale.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes as Bronn lifted the flask to his lips. “I did not know you were so fond of the couple.”

“Oh, I barely know them. But why let a good opportunity for a drink go to waste?”

Jaime chuckled at that, but accepted the flask when Bronn handed it to him. “To Lord and Lady Baratheon.” He said, before taking a long sip.

The flask had been passed to Tyrion when Brienne appeared out of her own tent. “Lady Brienne!” Bronn yelled to her. “Come, have a drink with us! We’re toasting to the Stark girl and her stag on the night of their wedding!”

“Well,” Brienne said. “I suppose…” She came over to join them and Tyrion passed her the wine. She took a sip and made a face. “Hmm. That’s not half bad.”

“Only the best for us lords and ladies.” Bronn said, as Brienne sat down with them around the fire. He clapped his hands together. “Well, it’s still early yet. How about a song to pass the time?”

“No” Jaime blurted out at the same time Brienne mumbled “Oh, I don’t sing very much…”

“All right then.” Bronn turned to Tyrion. “Hey, what about the game we used to play? You remember? The guessing game.”

“You want to play that?”

“Why not?”

 “I don’t know if it will work very well.” Tyrion said. “All of us here know each other fairly well…”

“Of course it will work. We’ll just have to ask the deep, dark questions.” Bronn said, before explaining the rules to Jaime and Brienne. Jaime did not want to play any games, but he complied. The flask made another round and Bronn had a mischievous look on his face as he tried to think of where to start. “You,” Bronn said to Tyrion. “You’re in love with Lady Stark, aren’t you?”

Jaime saw Tyrion’s cheeks flush. “She’s going to marry Ser Harrold.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Reluctantly, Tyrion picked up the flask and took a drink. “You,” He said to Bronn. “Have fucked both your wives at once.”

At his words, a shit-eating grin crossed Bronn’s face. “What can I say? Those Freys like to keep it in the family.” He drank some wine, then turned to Jaime and Brienne. “Now one of you has to say something.”

Jaime and Brienne glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes. “I don’t know if either of us feel like playing.” Jaime said.

Bronn scoffed. “Oh come on now! When did you become so boring, Lannister?”

Still, neither of them said anything.

“Fine,” Bronn lent forward, his eyes moving from one of them to the other before they landed on Brienne. “Do you want to fuck him?”

“Bronn!” Jaime exclaimed, at the same time Brienne’s eyes went wide and she looked like she had stopped breathing.

“What?” She gasped.

“Answer honestly.” Bronn said. “I know he wants to fuck you.”

“That’s enough!” Jaime said, raising his voice before he even realized he was doing it. “Are you mad? Why would you say something like that to her? Apologize!”

But Brienne only bolted to her feet. “It’s quite all right.” She said, but her tone of voice told him otherwise. “I…” She stuttered. “Excuse me.” She turned on her heel and fled back to her tent without another word.

Jaime sighed and stood up, casting an annoyed look at Bronn, and even at Tyrion for encouraging this folly. “I’ll…take that as a yes?” Bronn said. Jaime rolled his eyes and went after Brienne.

He called her name to announce himself before entering the tent, and he found her sitting with her back towards him, her face obscured from view. “Brienne,” He said. “I am so…I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t owe me an apology. It’s quite all right.”

“I do.” Jaime insisted. “That was…” He trailed off. “That was completely inappropriate. I hope you know that I would never…that I would never want to make you feel disrespected.”

Tentatively, Brienne stood up, and she turned to look at him. She did not look upset, and her eyes were dry, but her cheeks were flushed. “Jaime, I…” She paused. “If we’d been playing, I would’ve taken a drink.”

Now, Jaime did not know what to say. “What?”

Brienne blushed harder and looked at her feet. “Do you honestly think I’ve never thought about it?” She asked. “About you?”

Jaime stared at her for a long moment, speechless. “I…” He finally said. “I think about you too. Quite often, in fact.”

Then in a heartbeat, before he even realized he was doing it, he crossed the tent and pulled her face close so he could kiss her on the mouth.

After the initial surprise, Brienne kissed him back, her hands moving up to touch his neck while his moved down from her waist to her hips. This kiss was hungrier and more desperate than the others they’d shared, and Brienne parted her lips to welcome his tongue. He felt her moan his name into his mouth.  

Jaime could not deny that he wanted her, and as their hands moved over each other’s bodies, layers began to come off. Jaime’s good hand fumbled with the buttons on her jerkin while Brienne removed his empty sword belt, letting it fall to the ground. Her hands moved to his shoulders and started to pull his shirt off. “Jaime…”

He desired her now more than he possibly ever had, and Jaime knew if he did not get ahold of himself this would go far tonight. “ _Brienne_.” He pulled away from the kiss but Brienne leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his. “You’re…you’re a maid…”

“Well, yes, but you can show me…”

She leaned in to kiss him again but Jaime backed away. As much as he wanted to kiss her more, he knew he should not. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What do you mean then?” Brienne stared at him with those big blue eyes of hers, and he saw them fill with confusion. “Is it…is it me? Did I do something wrong or…?”

He suddenly felt like the biggest ass in the world. “It’s nothing you did. In fact, you did everything right. But I just…I can’t sleep with you, Brienne. Even though I want to…it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’re a maid, and we’re not married.”

Now that Brienne realized what his reservations were, a look of determination crossed her face and she closed the distance between them. “You think that matters to me? I want to be with you.”

“If people knew we spent the night alone in your tent together, they’d talk.”

“Let them.” Brienne said instantly. “Men have talked about me behind my back my whole life anyway.”

Jaime pressed one last chaste kiss against her lips. “I know I haven’t always acted with honor, wench. But I would never be able to live with myself if I brought dishonor upon you.”

Brienne said nothing for a moment, then she sighed. “All right.” She whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to have any reservations.”

“And my reservations have nothing to do with you,” Jaime insisted. “Or how beautiful you are.” He saw Brienne smile at that. He knew she liked to pretend that being called beautiful didn’t matter to her, but every woman deserved to be reminded every once in a while. Especially a woman as special as she.

Maybe Brienne did not care, but he would not let people talk down about her just because he’d given into his passions. Jaime would not do that to Brienne.

He loved her too much for that.

* * *

**SANSA**

Sansa winced as she accidentally pricked her thumb with her needle. “Seven hells.” A drop of red blood appeared on her fingertip and she lifted it to her mouth, careful not to get any blood on the project she was working on. “You know Arya, you could’ve given me a little more notice about your wedding, so I would’ve had more time to finish the hem.”

Arya was sitting on the edge of the mattress in her and Gendry’s room at the inn, sliding her dirty riding leathers off and wincing as Bella pinched her cheeks to bring them color, while Mya undid the laces on Arya’s muddy boots. “Who says I’m wearing a dress? And we only decided to get married tonight three hours ago. I gave you as much notice as I could.”

“Mya, hold still for a second.” Lady Marya said, a pin clenched between her teeth. “Let me do her hair.” She ran a brush through Arya’s brown locks and examined them. “How should I do it, m’lady? A braid?”

“It really does not matter.” Arya started to say. “However you like – ”

“A braided bun.” Sansa interjected. When the women only looked at her in confusion, she explained. “Brush her hair, form two braids on each side of her head, leaving a little hair left in the middle. Then use the leftover hair to form a bun, and pin each of the two braids into the bun.”

Marya hmmed and nodded, and Bella touched Arya’s hair. “That would be pretty.”

Sansa saw blush creep up Arya’s cheeks, but she said nothing.

Marya worked on Arya’s hair, having Bella pass her hair pins, while Sansa continued the finishing touches on the hem of the wedding dress. “What about a cloak?” Mya asked Bella. “Highborns are supposed to have a cloak, aren’t they?”

“How should I know?” Bella said. “I don’t know any married ladies.”

“The groom is supposed to drape the bride in a cloak with the sigil of his house, to symbolize that he’s bringing her into his family. Shouldn’t our goodsister have a cloak?”

Bella pushed herself off the bed and handed the hair pins to Lady Marya. “Come on.” She said, grabbing Mya by the hand. “Don’t think we’re gonna find any Baratheon sigils lying around here, but one of those fellows downstairs had a black cloak, looked rather new. I think it might fit Arya.”

Mya gave her a look. “And how do you suggest we get it?”

Bella smiled at her sister and raised one of her black eyebrows suggestively. “I was born and raised in a whorehouse, Mya. I know how to get what I went from men. Come along now.” Mya rolled her eyes, and Bella dragged her out of the room.

Lady Marya chuckled to herself as she stuck a pin in one of Arya’s braids. “I think you’ll fit right in in this family, m’lady.”

Arya smiled. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

Once Lady Marya had finished Arya’s hair, she left the room to make sure that Mya and Bella didn’t get up to too much mischief. Sansa smiled to herself as she finished sewing the hem of the dress. Perhaps she could’ve finished it better if she’d had more time, but she was proud of her handiwork. “The dress is done.” She told Arya. “Come, take a look.”

Tentatively, Arya – now only in her smallclothes – walked over and reached out to stroke the fabric. “It’s very pretty Sansa, truly.” She said, biting her lip. “And it was nice of you to make it for me. But, well I…”

“You what?”

Arya looked at her, appearing strangely timid. “Pretty things have never been meant for me. I’ll…I’ll look foolish.”

Suddenly, Sansa understood what this was really about. _It was never the idea of a dress that bothered her – it was the idea that she might not look good in it._ She stood up and took Arya’s hands. “I know that I teased you when we were younger, but that was wrong of me. Maybe you were more tomboyish than I would’ve liked, but you were never ugly Arya, and you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. And I’m sure Gendry will think you’re exquisite, dress or no dress.”

The corners of Arya’s lips turned up into a smile. “You really think so?”

“I know so. Pants, dress…you could walk down the aisle naked for all Gendry cares – in fact, he might actually prefer it. You know how men are.”

“Sansa!” Arya gasped, but then she laughed. “Did my own dear sister just make a sexual innuendo?”

Sansa laughed too. “Perhaps. So, what do you say? Do you want to wear the dress?”

Arya’s grey eyes flicked from the dress to Sansa and then back again. “Well,” She said finally. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try it on…”

The dress was simple: grey velvet, with long sleeves, a modest neckline, and a short train. It was relatively unadorned, save for the little weirwood branches Sansa had embroidered along the sleeves and the hem, but she did not think Arya would have wanted something ostentatious anyways. Hers was a natural, wilder beauty. Sansa helped Arya into the dress and tied the laces. “What do you think?”

Arya looked at her reflection in the looking glass, and Sansa saw her smile. “You know I hate to admit you were right and I was wrong,” Arya said. “But…it’s perfect, Sansa.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Sansa rested her chin on Arya’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her sister. “You look absolutely beautiful. I am so proud of you, Arya.” She was glad that after all these years, after how foolish and stubborn they’d been as girls, they could finally have a supportive sisterly relationship. Sometimes Sansa felt ashamed thinking about what an idiot girl she’d been, but she was young then, and she knew better now. Both she and Arya had needed their time apart to fully appreciate each other and what they had.

“Do you think Gendry will like it?”

“Oh, certainly. He’s not going to be able to keep his hands off you…”

The two sisters laughed, but then Sansa’s mind drifted elsewhere. As happy as she was for Arya, a small part of her could not help but feel melancholic. She hated herself for thinking about her own troubles on her sister’s wedding day, but it brought up bad thoughts for her. Sansa had been married twice already, and neither had succeeded. She’d gone to Tyrion in his tent to give him her heart, to see if there was any hope for a future between them, and he’d pushed her away. When she'd fled his tent, she had not been able to look at him, not wanting Tyrion to see just how deeply hurt she was. 

Arya must’ve noticed the look on Sansa’s face, because she turned around. “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing – ” She started to say, but Arya cut her off.

“I know it’s not nothing. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Tears rushed to Sansa’s eyes before she could stop them. “I feel like an idiot.”

Arya shushed her, and led her to the mattress, where they both sat down. “You’re not an idiot, Sansa. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“It’s only…I always used to dream about my wedding day, remember? The dress I’d wear, the people who would come, the handsome groom who would love me. Only now…” Her voice lowered to an ashamed whisper. “I don’t think anyone’s ever going to love me.”

Her sister scooted closer to her and Arya’s arm wrapped around Sansa. It was strange, having her little sister comfort her. “I think someone already does.” Arya raised an eyebrow. “Is there something going on between you and Tyrion?”

“Gods, no!” Sansa cried. “Why would you say that?”

“He looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world. I know he loves you.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, I…I tried to tell him how I felt. I went to him and asked him to give me a reason not to marry Harrold Hardyng, and he couldn’t. He let me go.”

Arya said nothing for a long moment. “Do you _want_ to marry Harrold Hardyng?”

“Yes.” Sansa said quickly, followed by a “no” and then a resigned “I don’t know”.

“Sansa,” Arya got up from the bed and raised her sister to her feet as well. “I love you, and I will support whatever you decide. If you want to marry Ser Harrold, then I'll be happy for you and accept him as my brother. But in my opinion…if there’s even a smidgen of hesitation in your mind, don’t marry him. Not when you might still be in love with somebody else. I want you to be happy above all else.”

Sansa nodded, and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “And what if Tyrion doesn’t love me?”

“Then he can go fuck himself.”

Sansa let out a watery laugh at that.

“You can never know until you come out and tell him how you feel. If he still rejects you, then move on. But if you decide to marry Harry, without telling Tyrion the truth, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might’ve been. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Sansa felt a smile come to her lips. “When did my annoying kid sister get so wise?”

Arya grinned. “Perhaps I always have been, and you’ve only just noticed.”

With a playful roll of her eyes, Sansa pulled Arya in for an embrace and kissed the top of her head. “You’re still a pain in the ass, but you’re _my_ pain in the ass. Now come on – I want to see my little sister get married.”

* * *

**ARYA**

“Last chance to run.”

Arya laughed at Jon’s comment as he took her arm, ready to escort her to the ceremony. “Very funny, Your Grace.”

Jon winced at that. “Don’t start with that ‘Your Grace’ shit, _Lady Baratheon_.”

“Not quite Lady Baratheon yet,” Arya quipped. “And I won’t ever be if we don’t start walking.”

The Inn at the Crossroads sat on land that once belonged to House Darry until after Robert’s Rebellion, when they were stripped of half their property. Though the sept was located within Castle Darry’s walls, not too far from the Crossroads there was an abandoned godswood, untouched for two decades. With no sept available, this was where the septon – Meribald, his name was – was going to marry her and Gendry.

Arya and Jon walked in silence through the darkness, her arm through his, and suddenly Arya could feel her stomach fluttering. She had not expected to feel anxious, and Jon could clearly tell that she was unsettled. “Are you scared?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s just a lot to take in.”

Jon hesitated. “You know,” He finally said. “If you’re nervous about…about the wedding night – ”

Arya felt her face grow hot. “Jon – ”

“ – it can hurt the first time, for a girl, but after a while – ”

“ _Jon_!” Arya cut him off, more forcefully this time. “I’m…I’m not a virgin, okay?”

“Oh.” Now it was Jon’s turn to look embarrassed. “Well…okay then.”

“Thanks for trying to help.” Arya sighed. “What I was really thinking about was…I wish Father was here. And my mother.”

They were almost at the godswood now and when Arya looked at Jon, his eyes were full of understanding. “Father would be very proud of you, Arya. And Lady Catelyn as well. You’ve…well, you’ve grown into quite a young woman. And Gendry is a good man, the kind that any sensible person would be happy to have as their in-law.”

“Mother would probably faint if she knew I was marrying a Baratheon bastard.” Arya joked, but then she grew serious. This was one of the most important moments in her life, and she wished that her mother and father could’ve gotten to know Gendry, to love him as she did. Her mother should’ve been there to fuss over her, and her father should’ve been there to hold her hand and make her feel at ease. She thought of her father’s comforting hugs and her mother’s loving smiles. Arya suddenly missed them more fiercely than she had in quite a while. “In the end though…she would be happy for me, I think. Father too. And as much as I wish he were here to give me away, I’m glad that you’re with me. It means a lot to me.”

Jon grinned. “The pleasure is all mine, little sister. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They arrived in the godswood arm-in-arm. The weirwood was a spindly tree with black branches reaching up towards the night sky. Sansa was already on the verge of tears, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Ser Davos was there with his wife and sons, smiling proudly at Arya, and Hot Pie looked like he didn’t know what to do to himself, as if he’d never been at a wedding before. Gendry was at the front, standing before Septon Meribald, with his sisters off to his right. He looked dashing in the black and gold colors of his house and when he saw Arya, his blue eyes lit up with glee as if she were the Maiden herself, come down from the seventh heaven.

They finally reached the end of the aisle and Jon kissed Arya lightly on the cheek before handing her off to Gendry. He shook Gendry’s hand firmly and pat him on the back. “Take good care of my sister – I’d threaten to kill you if you don’t, but I know she’s fully capable of doing that herself.”

Gendry smiled. “I will.”

Satisfied, Jon went to stand by Sansa and squeezed her shoulder as she continued to sniffle and cry. All Arya could focus on was Gendry when their eyes met. “Hi.” In the moment, it was all she seemed able to say.

Gendry’s smile turned into a grin. “Hi. You look…seven hells, you look like a dream.” Arya did not typically think of herself as beautiful, but the way Gendry was looking at her right now made her believe it.

Septon Meribald began the ceremony. “You may cloak the bride and bring her into your family.” Arya and Gendry had asked the septon if he could change the traditional line: they already protected each other, and Arya thought this version was much more fitting. She’d once told Gendry she could be his family, and he’d said she would be his lady. In the end, they’d both been right, but not in the ways they’d originally planned.

Mya passed the bride’s cloak off to Gendry. It was plain black, not too large for Arya’s petite frame, and Arya did not want to think about what Bella had done to get that man to give it to her. It was soft and suited her quite well, she thought, as Gendry fastened it around her shoulders.

“My lord, my ladies,” Meribald said. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Let us pray.” Septon Meribald bowed his head and folded his hands, and the others followed suit. “We ask the Father to protect this man and this woman with his divine hand. We ask the Mother to bless their union with children in the future, the Maiden to keep their hearts true to one another. We ask the Warrior to lead them to victory in the wars to come, and the Crone to give them wisdom to make the right decisions for themselves and their people. Most importantly, we ask the Smith to protect them on their journey through life, to bring them together in unity as he mends all broken things, for what is marriage if not the joining of two broken souls together to make one whole? In the holy light of the gods we pray, so be it.”

“So be it.” They all echoed.

Next, Meribald instructed Arya and Gendry to stand side-by-side facing him and join hands, then began to fast their hands together with a piece of ribbon they’d gotten from Lady Marya’s sewing kit. “Let it be known that Gendry of House Baratheon and Arya of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them together as one for eternity.” Meribald unraveled the ribbon that had joined them – now they were one, with or without it. “Look upon each other, and say the words.”

Gendry was grinning at her like an idiot, and Arya could not help but smile as well. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” They recited in unison.

“…I am hers and she is mine…”

“…I am his and he is mine…”

“…from this day, until the end of my days.” They finished together.

Septon Meribald smiled at them. “As a sign of your covenant here tonight, you may seal your marriage with a – ” Before he could finish, Arya grabbed Gendry’s face and pulled him down towards her, and he wrapped his arms around her waist as they kissed, the strength of his embrace enough to lift her feet off the ground.

Their witnesses applauded and now Sansa was not the only one crying, as both Bella and Lady Marya had also become teary-eyed. Davos clamped Jon on the shoulder, and Arya cried out in surprise as Gendry swept her up in his arms. She smiled. “ _Husband_.” She whispered, kissing him again. There was to be no traditional reception, but there was wine and a pigeon pie which Hot Pie had made, and then the newlyweds would get to spend the rest of their night together before they had to go their separate ways in the morning.

But as they walked back towards the Crossroads (well, she was being carried), Arya did a double take. On one of the branches of the weirwood tree was a raven, and it seemed to be staring at her. When Arya looked at it, the bird took off and flew away into the night.

She smiled, and then she laughed. _Oh Bran. How nice of you to show up to my wedding…_

* * *

**GENDRY**

It had to be close to three or four in the morning by now, but he couldn’t sleep. With Arya curled up in his arms, he was too busy tracing the planes of her face with his finger, running his hands through her hair, memorizing every detail of her and this night. She sighed contently and burrowed further into his embrace, and Gendry kissed her forehead. “My wife,” He whispered in awe. “My little wolf wife…”

Arya grinned and kissed him on the mouth again. “My stubborn bull husband.” The kiss deepened and Gendry wondered if they were going to consummate their marriage again, but then Arya slipped from his grip and from the bed.

“Where are you going?”

Arya smirked at him over her shoulder as she padded naked across the room. “I’ll be right back. Patience.”

“Patience isn’t my strong suit.” Gendry said, propping himself up on his elbows. “At least not when it comes to you.” The mattress was stuffed with straw, but he would rather share a scratchy mattress with Arya than have a featherbed all to himself. He smirked to himself as he admired his bride, from her tousled brown hair to her bare back to the exquisite curve of her ass. Gods, she was awe-inspiring. He truly felt like the luckiest bloke in Westeros. Arya puttered around the room and filled a mug with water, then retrieved one of the bags for her moon tea and let it seep for several moments before she returned to the bed with her cup.

Downstairs the sounds of drunken revelry had died down and Gendry knew that they only had a few hours before they would have to leave the inn, Arya to rejoin the camp and he to go on to Storm’s End. _My family’s seat._ He thought. My _castle…_ It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that he was legitimized and going to be a lord, and now married to the woman he loved more than anything. “It’s late. Should we go to sleep?”

“I don’t know if I even could.” Arya said. “I feel like I’m buzzing. At this point, we might as well stay awake. We only have a few hours.”

After Arya had finished her tea, they laid down again, Gendry’s arm around her shoulders. He kissed her temple. “I’ll miss you while I’m at Storm’s End.”

“I know. I’ll miss you too. But it will only be for a little while…” Arya burrowed her face into his neck. “Let’s not talk about the war for the rest of the night. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like you and me.” She rolled over onto her stomach and propped her head up on her elbow. “We just got married. Isn’t that what married people do, talk about the future?”

“I don’t know,” Gendry said. “I’ve never been married before.”

Arya snorted in response. “You better not have. I could still geld you, Gendry Baratheon.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me, m’lady? You’d suffer from that punishment as much as I…” She rolled her eyes at him and he laughed. “It’s so strange to think that Storm’s End is mine. I’m still not used to it. You’ll have to teach me about all these lordly duties.”

“I’ve never been particularly good at being a lady. But it’ll come naturally to you I think, being a lord. You have a big heart.”

Gendry smiled. “As do you. I know you like to think you’re this tough assassin, Arya Stark, but I know you’re secretly a big softie.”

“You’ve caught me.” His wife laughed, trailing her fingers down his bare chest. “Well when I join you at Storm’s End, you’re going to have to show me around. The tower, the grounds, the villages nearby, all the little nooks and crannies perfect for sneaking around…”

It was a wonderful mental image: spending every day with Arya, going for adventures in the woods and the towns, taking walks on the shores and horseback rides through the country. It didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing as long as she was by his side. Gendry pulled Arya in for another kiss, long and hard. “Perhaps after the war we can go on a trip, just for a few weeks. We could go to the Free Cities, I’ve never been…”

Arya’s grey eyes lit up at the prospect. “Wouldn’t that be fun? The seaside of Lys, the rolling hills of Norvos, the old streets of Volantis…I can take you to Braavos. You’d like it there, I know you would. You should see how many water dancers there are – they’re artists, truly! The canals, the stone buildings, the markets, it’s all magical…”

Gendry loved the look of her smile as she described the city to him, so joyful and childlike. He suddenly wished he had known her when she was younger, before her father died, when she could’ve been happy like this all the time. “Will you be happy at Storm’s End?” He found himself asking suddenly. “Truly?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I know you never wanted to be a lady…”

In response, Arya shook her head at him good-naturedly. “Of course I’ll be happy. I’ll be with you, won’t I?”

Her words washed away any residual insecurity he might’ve had. “Aye – and I’ll be happy as long as I’m with you too.” They kissed again, but then another thought popped into Gendry’s mind when his eye caught the empty mug now sitting by the bed. “Arya, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

He gulped. “I’m not saying right now, but…do you think, maybe someday…do you think you’ll ever want to have children?” He knew that Arya had never expressed interest in babies like other women did. Gendry wanted them, even found himself fantasizing recently about what it would be like to give a little girl or boy everything he’d never had growing up, but he only wanted them if they were with Arya. She was his family, and more than enough for him.

Arya did not reject him outright, but instead she stared thoughtfully into space for a few moments, thinking. “I never thought of myself as a mother, you know? It was never something I dreamt about, not like Sansa. But now…” She trailed off. “I think someday I might like to have them, maybe. Have a real family again. But now, it’s hard for me to think about. No, the world is too messed up to bring an innocent child into. If I ever have a baby, I want them to be born into a world that’s safe. Where I can protect them…”

“You’d be able to protect them no matter what. You’re amazingly strong.” Gendry assured her. “But I know what you mean. I would want our children to grow up in a better world than we did, a world without war.”  

“And I’m not bringing children into a world where that bitch Cersei Lannister is queen.” Arya paused and brushed back some of Gendry’s black hair, a slight smile coming to her face. “I can imagine it. Having a son who looks like you, with your hair and your eyes…I like my Baratheon boys very much, you see.”

A child of his own blood was something Gendry had never allowed himself to want growing up, not when he was just a bastard, but now he had a wife whom he loved and a name he could pass on to a child. It was so close he could picture it, but still just out of reach. “And what if we have a little girl just like you?” He asked. “Brown-haired and grey-eyed, running around the castle with her wooden sword and wreaking havoc?”

Arya grinned. “Then I’ll teach her how to hold that wooden sword properly.”

 _Imagine a daughter with that smile._ He thought. _I’d be done for._ “Well,” Gendry said. “Odds are we’ll probably have both a boy and a girl at some point, seeing as we’re going to have seven.”

Arya slowly turned to face him, eyebrow raised. “Seven what?”

“Seven children. One for each of the gods, of course.”

She clearly didn’t think his jest was very funny, narrowing her eyes at him while Gendry bit back his laughter. “If you think I am pushing _seven children_ out of me, you are out of your mind Gendry Baratheon!” He burst out laughing now and an annoyed Arya smacked him square on the chest, which only made him laugh harder. His wife climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. “Take it back.”

“Never.” Arya tried to swat at him again but Gendry only rolled over in an attempt to knock her off, and suddenly Arya was laughing too as they rolled about the bed, a mess of tangled blankets and flailing limbs. Finally he pinned her under him and their faces were only inches apart as they giggled and kissed each other in between gasps for breath.

“Gendry,” Arya whispered, her voice more serious than before. “I know we have to say goodbye tomorrow…but don’t you even think about dying at Storm’s End, all right? You have to come back to me. This isn’t how our story ends.”

He smiled faintly and kissed her again, lightly this time. Arya was right, this was not how their story was supposed to end. They were supposed to rule together, to raise children and grow old together, to spend years teasing each other and making each other the happiest they’d ever been. Eventually this war would end and they’d be able to live in peace together. He had to believe that. This was only the beginning. “I promise I won’t. We’ve only just gotten married, Arya – you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Davos, Jon, Theon, Daenerys.


	9. Riverrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos issues a warning to his son; the gang arrives at Riverrun; Theon has to face the consequences of his past betrayal; Daenerys meets a potential new foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I was really digging the beginning of season eight but...wow, episode four. Is the show really going to throw years and years of character development away? I don't know, but I'm scared. I tried really hard to get this out before episode five tonight. No matter what happens, I'm more determined than ever to see this fic through and create the ending that I want.

**DAVOS**

They saddled their horses early the next morning and Devan squinted and stumbled, shielding his eyes against the sun. Davos leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Drink a little too much last night?”

His son jumped a little at his words. “I…I don’t know what you mean…”

Davos only clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not in trouble, lad. I just suggest you learn to hold your liquor a little better – and don’t fall off your horse today, all right?” Devan flushed, but nodded.

The door to the inn opened and out stepped the dark-haired, plump boy that Gendry and Arya knew. Hot Pie, they’d called him. Davos thought that was such a strange name for a boy. Hot Pie was carrying a pack on his shoulder. “I’ve decided,” He told Gendry and Arya. “I’m coming – but on one condition.”

The girl who had pointed the crossbow at them yesterday stepped out, and she cocked her weapon. “Don’t worry,” She said. “If anyone gives us any trouble on the road, I can take care of myself.”

Gendry and Arya were silent for a moment, and then they laughed. “All right,” Lord Baratheon said. “Saddle your horses.”

Willow proved to be a much more experienced horseman than Hot Pie, who needed a boost to get up on his pony. They were all going to go meet their man at the ruby ford, with it having been agreed that Marya, the younger boys, Mya, Bella, and now Hot Pie and Willow would remain with the back of the pack. At least then if they were caught and ambushed, they would have a chance to escape. Davos insisted on riding at the front alongside his lord, and Devan insisted on riding with Davos. “I’m a man now, Father.” He’d said. “I can fight like one.”

As for Lady Arya, she was to ride back to camp with King Jon and Lady Stark. They’d be going on to Riverrun now, to free Lord Tully. Arya stood on her tiptoes to kiss her husband goodbye, and Gendry grabbed her by the waist. He mumbled something to her, which Davos thought was along the lines of “I need to come back to you so we can have those seven children”. Arya rolled her eyes, but kissed him again.

“You’re so stupid.”

“I love you too, m’lady.”

Then, they rode off in their separate directions. Ser Davos had never known late King Robert well, but he thought that Gendry must’ve looked exactly like the young version of him, astride a horse with a warhammer strapped to his back. “Your father would be proud of you.” He found himself saying.

Gendry looked at him. “Do you really think so?”

“I do. Look at you – a hero of the War for the Dawn, now on his way to take back his family’s castle from its enemies. You’ve married a woman who loves you, and a Stark at that – King Robert always wanted the Baratheons and the Starks to someday be joined in matrimony. Any man with half a brain should be proud of you. I know I am.”

He saw Gendry smile at that. “Thank you, Ser Davos.” He said. “I know my uncle named you Lord of the Rainwood, and I just want you to know that once we’ve taken back the Stormlands, I want you to keep that title. You should have a keep, and precedence over all the houses on the Rainwood.”

“Are you certain, m’lord?”

“Of course. You deserve it.”

Davos nodded. “If you say so, m’lord. I shall be honored to serve you further. Thank you, m’lord.”

Devan rode up beside them, and they slowed their horses down to a trot. “Now,” Gendry said. “Tell me about these lands I am to rule. What are the Stormlands like?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Davos said. “There are many descriptions in the books I gave you.”

“Yes, but you’ve lived there. There’s a difference between reading about a place and experiencing it for yourself. If I’m to rule the Stormlands, I want to know what they’re like. What does it look like? What are the people there like?”

“It’s wet.” Devan said. “Rains more days there than it does not, even if it’s only for a few hours. Hope you’re not scared of thunder.”

“He’s a Baratheon,” Davos replied. “He _is_ the thunder.” Now he paused for several moments, thinking of what to say. “The Stormlands is one of the smaller kingdoms, but it is a proud one. It may be less populated than other places, but the people are fierce and battle tested: warriors, sailors, and commanders. There are harsh mountains, stony shorelines, and thick forests, but also waters so blue you can see your feet when you look down, and the villages have cottages covered in flowers and moss. You can grow all kinds of things: beans, pumpkins, melons, cabbages. As for the people, well…” He trailed off. “The stormlanders are as tempestuous as the lands they rule.”

“Do you think they’ll agree to submit to me?” Gendry asked.

“I think so.” The men of the Stormlands were stubborn, but they’d also been fiercely loyal to House Baratheon for many years. Many of the men there had loved Robert, had fought beside him. Many had died for Renly or for Stannis. “You are your father’s son,” Davos told Gendry. “And you can promise the stormlords justice for their murdered king. Once they see you, they will follow you. I believe that.”

In the days that followed they took a circuitous route in order to stay as far away from King’s Landing as possible. They could not take any major roads that led to or from the city – it was too risky that some of Cersei’s men would catch them, and they rode in the dead of the night on more than one occasion, sleeping during the day. Davos thought they just might make it.

They were north of the Wendwater, preparing to cross into the Stormlands, when banners appeared in the distance.

“Who is it?” Gendry asked him. “Queen’s men?”

Davos squinted but could barely make out the details of the banners as they appeared along the horizon. “I don’t know,” He said honestly. “But every man should keep a hold on his weapon. We may come to blows.”

There was the sound of hooves, and then Mya and Bella rode up to them. “I thought you were supposed to stay at the back.” Gendry said to his sisters.

“We were _supposed_ to,” Mya said. “But neither Bella nor I have been very good at doing what we’re told.”

“This may be dangerous.” Davos warned them. “You may lose your lives.”

“We’d rather fall besides our brother than run away like cowards.” Bella told him. “We’re Baratheons, let us die like ones.”

“And besides,” Mya added. “I’m prepared.” She pulled a knife out from the interior of her sleeve.

Gendry gave her a look. “Where did you get that?”

“Don’t worry – your wife taught me how to use it.”  

Gendry had his hammer, Mya her dagger, and next to Davos Devan had unsheathed his sword and was clutching it with both hands. But then, as the banners came closer, Davos exhaled. “Three stalks of yellow wheat on a brown field.” He said to Gendry. “The men are Lord Selmy’s.”

The host crossed the river to meet them, and the young man riding at the front had to be Selmy. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes much like those of his late great-uncle, the sigil of his house sewn onto his brown doublet. Three other lords were riding alongside him. Other men among their numbers were carrying their banners: a purple lightning bolt on a black field speckled with stars, three brass buckles on blue, and a yellow sun on a rose-colored field quartered with white crescent moons on a blue field.

Davos cleared his throat. “May I present Lord Gendry Baratheon, only living son of King Robert Baratheon, rightful Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, as well as his sisters, the Lady Mya and the Lady Bella.”

Arstan Selmy disembarked from his horse and came to fall on his knees before Gendry. “My lord,” He said. His voice had a strength to it atypical in someone so young. “I hope we did not give you a fright with our early arrival – we made better time than we thought, and wished to meet you as soon as possible.”

“You may rise, Lord Selmy.” Gendry told him, and the man did so. “I thank you for coming.”

Lord Selmy came to kiss both Mya and Bella’s hands in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, my ladies.” Bella grinned, while Mya seemed unusually bashful, unable to meet his eyes as he called her ‘my lady’. Lord Selmy gestured to the men who were with him. “Allow me to present my friends. Borros Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven – ”

A man of about Gendry’s age sitting on a black horse bowed his head. He was not particularly tall, but handsome, with brown hair and light eyes. “My lord, my ladies.”

“Dondarrion,” Gendry repeated. “You are kinsmen to the late Lord Beric?”

“Indeed, my lord. He was my father’s cousin.”

“I knew him, quite well in fact.” Gendry said. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I hope you take comfort in the fact that Lord Beric died bravely.”

“I thank you, my lord.”

Lord Selmy gestured to the second man, a dark-haired knight in his thirties. Davos recognized him instantly – the man had once been swore to Stannis in the War of the Five Kings, but he’d abandoned him after Shireen’s burning. The man had always had a soft spot for the little princess. “Ser Brus Buckler,” Lord Selmy said. “Heir to Bronzegate.”

“My lord,” Ser Brus said. “It shall be an honor to serve you, as I once served your father and your uncle Stannis. May they rest in peace.”

“And finally – ” Lord Selmy gestured to the final man, who appeared to be in his sixties. Even if Davos had not met this lord before, he was easy enough to recognize. If the flaxen hair and sapphire blue eyes were not a dead giveaway, there was also the manner of his height. It was hard for Davos to gage since he was sitting on his horse, but he looked to be even taller than his daughter, probably closer to seven feet than six.

“Lord Selwyn of Tarth,” Ser Davos supplied. “The Evenstar.”

Lord Tarth nodded at him. “Ser Davos Seaworth,” He said. “It is a pleasure to see you again. I did not expect you to remember me – we only met once those years ago, very briefly.”

“You are a hard man to forget, Lord Tarth.” They’d crossed each other’s paths years ago, at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings, when Davos had been trying to drum up support for Stannis. He’d met Lord Tarth at midnight in a grove, where the Lord of Evenfall Hall had told him he’d already pledged his men to Renly. It had been a brief conversation, but many of the other lords had not even granted Davos an audience in the first place. He’d respected Lord Tarth for being decent enough to look him in the eyes. 

“Ser Davos and I know your daughter quite well, Lord Tarth.” Gendry said. “Lady Brienne has been a loyal friend to my wife and her sister.”

A smile came to Lord Tarth’s face at the mention of his daughter. “I am glad to hear it – Brienne has only heaps of praise for Lady Stark and Lady Baratheon in her letters. I look forward to meeting them both once this war is over.”

Lord Selmy climbed back onto his horse. “Allow us to escort you, my lord.”

Together they rode on. Gendry rode beside Lord Tarth as they continued to converse about Arya and Brienne, while Mya and Lord Selmy quickly found they had things in common as they discussed their shared love of riding. Bella rode between Lord Borros and Ser Brus, inquiring about how they liked it in the Stormlands, their keeps, and how they knew Lord Selmy.  

Davos rode alongside his son and slowed down his horse down to a trot, so they could have a bit of space. “So,” He said to Devan. “Your mother tells me there is a certain lady you have your eye on.”

At his words, Devan’s cheeks flushed crimson. “Wylla.” He said, sounding unusually shy. “She’s…well, she’s very special.”  

Davos smiled. His son was now smiling and blushing like a maid. _He must be in love._ “What is she like?”

“She’s very kind. We’ve been friends for a few years now and I, well…” Devan paused. “I think she’s the one, Father. She reminds me of Mother, in a way. She’s a good woman, like she is. I told myself that if I was ever going to get married, I wanted something like the two of you have. I’m going to ask Wylla to be my wife.”  

“Well, when a man finds a woman like your mother or your Wylla, he would be a fool not to marry her. I look forward to meeting my future daughter-in-law.” He stared at Devan for a long second, thinking. “Promise me you will be careful in this battle. Do not go trying to win glory for yourself. If not for me or your mother, then for your Wylla.”  

Devan frowned at him. “I will try, Father. But I am no coward. If I must die for my lord, I shall die for my lord.”

“There is a difference between being a coward and being reckless with your life. Remember that.”

Four of his sons had already died following him into war for a Baratheon.

Davos would not let the same thing happen to another.  

* * *

**JON**

From atop the crest of the hill, they looked down at Riverrun, the great ancestral seat of House Tully. Jon had never seen the castle with his own eyes before. It was not particularly large, but stately, surrounded by an impressive moat. It occurred to him as he looked down upon Riverrun that this had once been Lady Catelyn’s home – the blood of House Tully flowed through his sisters’ veins, but not his. The woman who once lived here had hated Jon his whole life.

“There are guards on the battlements, Lannister bannermen no doubt.” Daenerys said from her spot by Jon’s side. “I could see them from Drogon.”

“How many?”

“A few hundred. If it comes to blows, we’ll have the upper hand.”   

“Riverrun can withstand a siege for a year.” Sansa piped up from Jon’s other side. Arya was to the left of her, astride her horse. “We have two dragons, but using them means burning every soul in Riverrun alive, including my uncle, and that will defeat the entire purpose of our journey. We’ll need to find another way.”

Daenerys hmmed and nodded. “Yes, that will not do. But luckily we have a man here who has experienced a siege of Riverrun firsthand.” She looked to one of her Unsullied guards. “Bring me Lord Lannister.”

A few minutes later the guard returned with Jaime Lannister, who rode up on his horse to join Jon, Daenerys, Sansa and Arya. “You asked for me, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Daenerys responded coolly. “I know we have not always gotten along, Lord Lannister. But since your brother has forsaken his claim to Casterly Rock, that makes you the head of your great house. You are a great military mind, Lord Lannister, and you took Riverrun for your sister. Now prove your loyalty by taking it back for me and my husband.”

“And how do you suggest I do that, Your Grace?”

Jon stared down at Riverrun, his eyes scanning the battlements. “See those sigils? A pink maiden dancing in a swirl of white silk on a blue field, and a brindled black and white boar on a brown field.”

“House Piper of the Riverlands and House Crakehall of the Westerlands,” Sansa said. “What of it?”

Jon looked at Jaime. “You squired at Crakehall when you were a boy, did you not my lord?”

“I did, Your Grace. For four years.”

Jon nodded, and spurred his horse. “Good. I shall ride with you down to the gates.”

Arya gave him a look. “And why on earth are you going to do that? They’re not going to yield the castle.”

“They might – for their rightful lord.”

“And what if they do not?” Lord Jaime asked.

“Then,” Jon sighed. “I suppose my wife will rain fire and blood down upon them.”

Together the two men slowly approached the gates of Riverrun on their horses, accompanied only by a few guards. The drawbridge was closed to them and men from the battlements looked down at them, drawing their arrows. “Who goes there?”

“Jaime Lannister, eldest son of Tywin Lannister, rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. As well as His Grace, King Jon of House Targaryen, First of His Name. We demand that you surrender this castle.”

A bearded, dark-haired man in a brown jerkin peered down at them from the battlements, his dark eyes squinting under his bushy eyebrows. “Your sister is our queen.” He called down. “Give us one good reason why we should not execute you on sight. We would be well-rewarded for giving Cersei your head.”

To his credit, Jaime Lannister was unflinching as he stared up at the castle. “It’s Ser Merlon, is it not?”

The man frowned at him. “I am Ser Merlon Crakehall, yes.”

“I remember you. I squired for Lord Sumner when I was a young man. He was your grandfather, yes? I saved his life during the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood, before Big Belly Ben could smash his head in…”

Jon saw some uncertainty cross Ser Merlon’s face. “Yes, he told me that story once…”

Next to Ser Merlon was a young man, no more than a teenager, with a mop of red hair. He had the Piper sigil on his doublet. “Jaime Lannister!” He yelled down. “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m – ”

“Lewys Piper.” Jaime supplied. “I remember you. You were my squire the last time I was here. You’ve grown since then.”

“I’m a knight now,” Young Lewys proclaimed proudly. “All thanks to you!”

Jon suspected that the young man would not need much convincing. He already seemed to idolize Lord Jaime. Jaime turned his green eyes back to Ser Merlon. “How does your father fare?” He asked. “I have not seen Lord Roland in at least two or three years.”

“Dead. Gout. My brother Tybolt is Lord of Crakehall now.”

“My apologies. And what of your brother Ser Lyle? Strongboar, is that not what they call him?”

A darkness came over Ser Merlon’s face. “Dead as well. It was the tragedy in the Great Sept of Baelor that got him.”

“What happened in the sept was no simple tragedy, ser.” Jon called out. “The explosion was Cersei Lannister’s doing. You owe no loyalty to the woman who murdered your own brother. Lord Jaime is your rightful liege lord. Surrender the castle, and you shall be richly rewarded.”

Still, Ser Merlon looked hesitant. “Or what? You’ll burn me alive with your bride’s dragons if I don’t, Your Grace?”

“Ser Merlon,” Jaime said. “There is no need for that. No one has to die today. I’ve known you since we were boys – do you not remember those days in the courtyard at Crakehall, when we’d fight with our wooden swords, Tybolt, Lyle, you and I?”

“I’ve changed very much since then, my lord.”

“Have you?” Lord Jaime asked. “I considered you a friend, Ser Merlon. And I know you loved your father and brothers. Avenge them.”

Young Lewys leaned over to whisper something into Ser Merlon’s ear. Jon could not hear what he was saying, but he watched his lips move. Ser Merlon stared down at the two of them for a moment, his eyes hard, and then he turned away. “Open the gates!”

They rode into the courtyard and Ser Merlon and Lewys Piper descended from the battlements. “Welcome back, my lord.” Lewys said, beaming. He bowed to Jon. “Your Grace.”

“Lewys,” Lord Jaime said. “Where is Lord Edmure being kept?”

“He’s been placed under house arrest in his rooms, my lord. We’ve kept him comfortable, in accordance with your orders…”

Behind them, the women and the rest of their party rode up, the dragons circling overhead. “Take us to him.” Jon instructed Ser Merlon and Lewys.

Ser Merlon burst open the door to the lord’s chamber, so hard that it bounced off the wall. Jaime stepped in first, Jon right behind. The man seated on the bed there did not look like he was being mistreated – he was dressed warmly, though plainly, and he looked clean even if his hair was now shaggy and he had not shaved in a while. But Lord Edmure’s eyes were accentuated by dark circles, and he looked like he had not had a good night’s sleep in days, weeks, maybe even months. He sat up slowly as they barged into the room, and when he saw Jaime, his eyes narrowed. “ _You_ ,” He spat. “Have you come to finally kill me?”

They were words that should’ve been spoken with disgust, but instead they came out sounding broken. Lord Edmure had lost his father, his sister, his nephew, his uncle. He’d spent the last several years being shuffled from one prison to another, never knowing what was going to happen to him next. At this point, Jon supposed, he probably saw death as a mercy. At least it was final.

Jon stepped forward. “Actually, Lord Tully,” He said. “We’ve come here to save you.”

Bewilderment crossed the other man’s face and Edmure stared at Jon for a long moment, his lips slightly parted, but no words coming out of his mouth. Jon wondered how much the Lord of Riverrun knew about the war after all of his imprisonment. He probably had no idea what was going on.

“Edmure?”

Before Jon could clue him in, they were interrupted by a woman’s frantic cry, and Jon and Jaime both stepped aside so that Sansa could lead Lady Roslin in. Roslin Tully looked like she was on the verge of tears, carrying her young son in her arms and clutching him to her chest. When she saw Lord Edmure, the first tear spilled from her eye.

The man stood up, his eyes wide in wonderment, and Jon thought that Lord Edmure might keel over from shock. “Roslin?”

His young wife practically threw herself at him, sobbing.

It was such an intensely private moment that Jon felt like he had no right to be there. He looked at Lord Jaime, who had averted his eyes, while Sansa stood in the open doorway, a sad smile on her face. Lewys Piper smiled at the scene, while Ser Merlon Crakehall looked like he didn’t know what he was still doing here. Lady Roslin embraced her husband, weeping into his chest, and after the initial shock wore off Lord Edmure hugged her back, kissing the top of her head. “Oh Roslin…” Young Axel Tully was currently being crushed between them and the boy pulled back to look up at his mother.

“Mummy, why are you crying?”

With a laugh Lady Roslin kissed the top of his head, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “Oh my darling, I’m just so happy…” Lord Edmure was speechless as he held them both, gently reaching down to touch the boy’s hair, as if terrified that he was suddenly going to lose them again.

The Lord of Riverrun only looked up from his wife and child to meet Jon and Jaime’s eyes. He glanced at them both and then at Sansa, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words, and that was when Jon noticed he was crying. “Thank you.” Lord Tully finally managed, as he clutched Lady Roslin tighter. “Oh gods, _thank you_.”  

* * *

**THEON**

That night, Riverrun feasted for the first time since the wedding which had taken its king’s life.

Lord Edmure had been freed from his imprisonment, washed, shaved, and dressed in the Tully colors. Lady Roslin looked the part of the Lady of Riverrun, clad in a pale blue dress, her hair parted in the middle. Currently she was sitting by her husband’s side at the high table, their son in Lord Edmure’s lap – the little boy was staring out at the rest of the feast, his eyes wide in wonder as he took in everything around him. Lord Edmure had scarcely let the boy out of his sight since they’d arrived. Theon knew the feeling. It was jarring to find out you had a son who you’d never met.

He glanced beside him, where Asher was currently seated with Yara, his hand placed on the table with the fingers spread apart as Yara stabbed back and forth, the knife dancing between Asher’s fingers. “What are you doing?” Theon demanded.

Asher laughed as his aunt narrowly avoided stabbing him in the thumb. “It’s a game, Father! It’s fun.”

“It won’t be fun when you lose a finger.” Theon said. He picked Asher up and pulled him into his lap, causing Yara’s knife to wedge itself in the wood of the table.

His sister glared at him. _You’re no fun._ She mouthed, but Theon ignored her. He knew that danger was considered an amusing pass time to an ironborn, but he didn’t want to have to staunch his five-year-old son’s blood flow tonight if he lost an appendage.

Tormund, the Hound, and Tormund’s daughters returned to the table then, carrying drinks for them all. Munda slapped a tankard of ale down in front of Theon but before he could thank her, she’d already squeezed herself next to him on the bench. “So,” She said, smiling slyly at him. “I heard you once saved a boy’s life by shooting a Free Folk through the back with an arrow.”

Theon gulped, and picked up the tankard of ale. “I did.” The man had been holding a knife to Bran’s throat, and would’ve killed him if Theon hadn’t done something, and probably Robb too. _But what does it matter? They both died anyway._ “It wasn’t that impressive.”

“Oh, but I bet it was.” Munda’s hand came to rest on Theon’s thigh. “I heard you got him in one, clean shot. That was mighty brave of you – you must’ve known you’d make it. Otherwise he would’ve slit the boy’s throat, isn’t that right?”

“I didn’t know anything.” Munda’s fingers were itching further inwards and upwards, and Theon roughly grabbed her hand and pushed it to the side. “That’s enough.”  

Manda took a long gulp of ale and glared at her sister. “Munda, you ignorant little shit!” She chastised. “The man has no cock! Leave him alone!”

“Aye Manda, shut up won’t you?” Munda snapped back. “But there are other ways for pleasure, you know. And I don’t see anything wrong with his mouth…”

“That’s enough, from both of you.” Tormund told his daughters. “Manda, mind your business. And Munda, if it’s a man you want, go find a Free Folk. I won’t have a southron pansy deflowering my baby girl – Longspear Ryk’s been looking for you, and you know why they call him that don’t you? He don’t fight with no spear! Ha!” Manda rolled her eyes and drank some more ale, while Munda frowned and moved to sit at the other side of the table.

“Fine,” She sighed. “Have it your way, Greyjoy. You are too little for me anyway. All I meant is, what are we fighting for if not for freedom to love?”

“Revenge.” The Hound interjected, biting into a large leg of chicken. “Trust me girl, it’s sweeter than any roll in the sheets, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t you like women, Dog?” Tormund asked. “I’m sure there’s one out there you could turn you into a romantic yet. Or a man, if you prefer…”

The Hound spat a bone out onto the table. “I prefer neither. It’s not love or freedom or whatever it is you shits are going on about that’s kept me going all these years. It’s the thought of my vengeance. That’s what I love. And I’m going to get it.”

“And then what will you live for once that’s all over?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I may not have to.”

“Theon.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of the queen, as she descended the dais towards them. Daenerys Targaryen was as ethereal as ever with her silver hair assembled into one of her intricate braided updos. The dress she was wearing was red and black brocade with a black velvet trim, the fabric draped in a way to accommodate her large belly. In the past month her condition had become impossible to hide, everyone who looked at her being able to tell she was with child, but she was no less beautiful or formidable because of it. “Theon, Lord Tully would like a word with you, is that all right?”

Theon glanced over at the dais. Lady Roslin had now taken her child back into her lap, while Lord Edmure sat in his chair next to Jon, neither of them speaking to each other. Lord Edmure looked up and his eyes met Theon’s from across the room, but he quickly looked away. _He’s not pleased with me._ Theon thought. _And why should he be?_

Theon lifted Asher off of his lap and placed him down on the floor. “Asher, stay here with your aunt for a few moments.”

“Yes, Father.”

But Yara got up from the table just as Theon did, her eyes meeting his. _I’m coming with you,_ her expression said. Theon knew better than to refuse his sister and queen.

“I’ll stay here with young Asher.” Queen Daenerys offered. “I don’t mind.” She smiled and knelt down to the boy’s level. “We’ll have fun together, won’t we?”

Asher smiled and nodded in response. As Theon and Yara approached the high table, he could hear the tail end of their conversation, with Asher saying excitedly: “Your Grace, can I show you the game my aunt Yara just taught me?”

They walked up to the dais, and King Jon nodded at Theon, then turned to Lord Tully. “Lord Edmure Tully, allow me to introduce Queen Yara of House Greyjoy, and her brother Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands.”

Yara bowed her head, and Theon did the same. “Lord Tully.”

Lord Edmure only nodded brusquely. “Your Graces. I was glad to hear that you have promised the queen to stop raping and pillaging my shores.”

“Raiding has been a traditional part of the ironborn way of life, but Queen Yara has agreed that this ancient practice should end.”

“An ancient practice, you call it?” Lord Edmure laughed. “I call it barbarism. I hope that you can fulfill your promise, better than you fulfilled your promises to my late nephew.”

Theon looked down at the mention of Robb. His stomach felt sick, even though he’d not had a bite to eat or anything to drink so far tonight. “What happened to Robb was a great crime.”

“I’ll say.” Lord Edmure replied, and King Jon and Lady Roslin exchanged wary glances from opposite sides of the lord. “My nephew wanted to see you dead for what you did. You hailed him as your king and promised to stay by his side always, then you betrayed him. You know what his men called you? Theon Turncloak – ”

Theon did not see the knife at first. One minute Yara was reaching into the bodice of her jerkin, and then suddenly there was a flash of silver as the knife was forcefully stabbed into the table, right in between Lord Edmure’s thumb and forefinger. Lady Roslin let out a cry of surprise, while Lord Edmure only looked at Yara with shock. Theon had not seen her pick the knife up after her game with Asher.

“That is enough!” Jon ordered forcefully, slamming his goblet down onto the table. “We did not come here for violence, Your Grace. And as for you, Lord Tully, I believe you’ve made your point. Let’s move on.”

Yara pulled her knife out of the table and shoved it back into her shirt with a huff. Lord Edmure looked up at Theon, any anger in his eyes now replaced with resignation. “I apologize for my harsh words, Your Grace.” He said. “It’s simply that I’ve had years with nothing to do but to think about how it all went wrong for my nephew. I know he considered you a friend once, and your betrayal hurt more than any other.”

 _He was more than just a friend._ Theon thought, his throat suddenly feeling dry. _He was my brother, and I should’ve died with him._ “I owe you an apology as well, Lord Tully.” He said. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I…I loved Robb. For the rest of my days, I will regret that I did not die alongside him. I know nothing I can do can change the past, but I hope to honor Robb’s memory as best as I can by helping to place his beloved brother upon his rightful throne.”

Lord Edmure nodded. “Yes, indeed. Robb wanted to see the North freed from its chains, and those who had hurt his family punished. I intend to dedicate my men to this cause, in memory of my nephew. And my sister.” Now, the Lord of Riverrun’s eyes turned towards Jon. He stared at the king for a long moment, not saying anything. “Cat never knew.”

Jon swallowed, and stared into the depths of his cup, unable to meet Lord Edmure’s eyes. “I know.” He said. “Lord Eddard never told anyone.”

“If she’d known,” Lord Edmure continued. “She never would’ve hated you. She tried to love you, she really did – but she couldn’t. Not when she thought you were the living proof of her husband’s infidelity, staring her in the face.”

“I know.” Jon said again. He looked up, but instead of turning to Lord Edmure, his eyes met Theon’s, full of melancholy. “But it is too late for that now. I suppose all of us will have to live with our regrets.”  

* * *

**DAENERYS**

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Your Grace?”

Daenerys sighed in contentment as she lowered herself into the steaming bath water. She liked her baths nice and hot, though she couldn’t have the water as warm as usual these days, for her unborn children’s sake. Missandei finished removing the pins from her hair – her braids always looked nice, but they started to hurt Dany’s scalp after twelve hours – and Daenerys allowed her silver locks to fall free, tumbling down her shoulders and into the water. Lavender floated on the surface, filling the air with sweetness.

“I am quite all right, Missandei. You look tired, why don’t you go to bed?”

Missandei looked uncertain, massaging some scented oil into Daenerys’s scalp. “Are you sure, Your Grace? I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’ll be all right. Jon should be coming to bed any moment.” Her husband was finishing up with Lord Tully and his sisters, discussing the details for their march to King’s Landing. Lord Tully would need time to summon his bannermen to Riverrun, and they were awaiting word from Ser Davos or Gendry on the status of the Stormlands’ troops. Daenerys sunk lower into the tub. Perhaps when Jon was finished, he could join her here. “And besides, I have an Unsullied outside my door. I won’t really be alone. Get some sleep, my dear friend.”

Missandei smiled at her and kissed her cheek, placing the hair pins down on the floor. She left a towel by the foot of the tub so Daenerys could dry herself when she was done soaking. “Thank you, Your Grace. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight dearest.” Daenerys closed her eyes and leaned back. After a few moments she heard the sound of Missandei closing the door behind her.     

Daenerys sighed contently as she laid there in the warm water. She’d been so tired and uncomfortable on the road as of late, the fatigue from her pregnancy and the increasing amount of weight she had to carry around taking a toll on her body. It was nice to have a real bed to sleep in tonight, so she could finally have some much earned rest. She ran her hands down her belly, rubbing over her navel. “We shall have a good night’s sleep tonight, won’t we my little ones?”

Almost in response, Daenerys felt something akin to a nudge from inside her body. She let out a quiet gasp and her hand moved to rest over the spot on her belly where she’d just felt it. She recognized the feeling – it was the same thing she’d felt during her first pregnancy, when Rhaego had first moved inside her. “Oh, are you saying hello my little ones?” She felt a flutter at the opposite side of her belly, which must’ve been the other twin making him or herself known as well.

Tears rushed to Daenerys’s eyes. After what had happened to her first child, she’d never fully allowed herself to relax this pregnancy, always worried that something would happen to one or both of her babies. As she felt the first flutters of her twins moving inside of her, she felt like she could breathe easily for the first time in five months. At least for now, she knew her children were safe. “Hello, my darlings. I already love you so much…” 

Daenerys sat up in the tub for several moments longer, silently hoping that the babies would move again, moving her hands up and down her belly in an attempt to prod one of them into kicking. After a while she heard the bedroom door open and she smiled. “Oh Jon, come and feel this!”

She received no response, only the sound of the gentle footfalls coming closer. “Missandei?” Daenerys asked. “Is that you? Did you forget something?” Once again, there was no answer. Even sitting in the bath, Daenerys suddenly felt a chill. “…Ser Jorah? Ornela? Emma? Jhiqui? Who’s there?”

She stood up and had one foot out of the tub when suddenly there was an arm wrapped around her neck, pulling her back. Daenerys gasped, unable to breathe, and she felt something cold and metallic press against the base of her throat. “Don’t scream.” A man’s voice whispered into her ear. His voice was not harsh and guttural, but smooth as silk, quiet, and in another context it may have even been considered friendly. “This will be over before you know it…” 

Panic rising within her, Daenerys looked around desperately, trying to formulate a plan for her escape. She could not move from the strength of this man’s grip and she was unarmed, with no means to defend herself or her unborn children. _I have to do something._ She thought to herself, trying to remain as calm as she possibly could with a blade pressed to her throat. If she could not find a way out of this, this man – whoever he was – would kill her and her children. Daenerys’s eyes scanned the room, and suddenly they landed on the large, sharp, silver hair pins that Missandei had left lying on the floor. Discreetly, she moved her foot until she could grasp one of them between her toes and pulled it back, driving the sharp end of the hair pin into her attacker’s foot.

The man screamed and jumped back, allowing Daenerys to break free from his hold and he collapsed to the floor, the pin still jutting out of the top of his foot. She’d driven it in with enough strength to send it straight through, in one side and out the other. Daenerys wrenched it out, causing a trickle of blood to spray her, and picked the towel off the floor to cover her nakedness. The man yelped in pain.  

“Daenerys? What’s going on?”

This time it was Jon who burst into the room, Arya at his heels. When he walked into the privy and saw the attacker writhing on the floor, clutching his bloody foot, he immediately raced to Daenerys’s side and took her into his arms, even though she was soaking wet.

“Are you all right? When I saw the guard outside your door…”

The Unsullied man must’ve been dead. Otherwise, her attacker never would’ve gained access to her chambers. Daenerys could barely speak, but she nodded her head at the man on her floor. “The blood is his, not mine.” Jon still looked concerned and she grabbed his hand, placing it over the spot on her belly one of the twins was now pushing against. Jon sighed and kissed her forehead.

“Thank the gods you are all right.”

Meanwhile Arya had grabbed the man by his shirt and pinned him against the wall, her arm against his chest, her dagger pressed against his throat. “Who are you?” Her husband’s sister was demanding angrily. “Who sent you?”

Now Daenerys could for the first time look upon her attempted murderer’s face. He was perfectly unassuming – full cheeks, a cap of tight black curls, a hooked nose, pink lips. He did not look like someone you ought to fear. When the man did not answer her the first time, Arya dug the point of her dagger into the base of his neck, just enough to draw blood. A single drop trickled down the skin of his throat.

“Who are you?” Arya repeated.

The man looked down at Arya with his close set black eyes. “No one.” He said in that smooth voice of his. “Truly.”

While this answer only confused Daenerys, a quiet gasp escaped Arya’s mouth, and she dropped her dagger. It fell to the floor by her feet. “What is it?” Jon asked his sister, his grip around Daenerys’s tightening. Even wrapped in her towel, Daenerys shivered. “What does that mean?”

Arya ignored him as she stared into the strange man’s eyes, one of her hands reaching up to touch the man’s face. Now it was Daenerys’s turn to gasp as Arya peeled it away, as if it were a mask, revealing an entirely different face underneath.

In that moment, Arya looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

“…Jaqen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Arya, Sam, Tyrion, Brienne.


	10. The Many-Faced God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya bargains for the lives of her loved ones; Sam finds out what Gilly's been hiding from him; Tyrion faces a romantic rival; Brienne comforts Jaime after shocking news arrives from King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe D&D messed up season eight so badly. I have to laugh so I don't cry.
> 
> Anyways, here's another chapter. I'm glad that this fic diverges after the end of season seven because the end of season eight is such a trainwreck I'm going to pretend it doesn't exist. Character development who? D&D don't know her.

**ARYA**

The queen was dripping wet as she slipped on her bathrobe and Jon wrapped his arms around her, asking her again and again if she was sure she was all right. But Arya could not tear her eyes away from the man in front of her, his dark eyes boring into hers, and she realized she was shaking as she picked her dropped dagger off of the floor.

“Arya,” She heard Jon’s voice say to her. “I’m going to get a guard and Lord Tully. Can you hold him until I get back?”

Arya could only nod in response, her throat feeling so dry she could barely speak, and she heard Jon shuffle Daenerys from the bed chamber, their footfalls gradually fading away.

It was Jaqen who broke the silence. “So we meet again, girl.”

At his words, Arya’s shock faded away into anger and she pressed the point of her blade against his throat, her arm on his chest pressing harder against it. “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”

“A man cannot reveal his clients.”

“Was it Cersei?” Jaqen’s silence told her all she needed to know, and she let out a bitter laugh. “Last I heard she was in debt. How did she even afford you?”

“That is none of my concern. All a man knows is that she paid in full, so our contract stands – and the price for such prominent and potentially dangerous kills was high. How she afforded it is no matter to me, but she did.”

“Kills?” Arya repeated. “As in, more than just Daenerys?” She racked her mind, trying to figure out who else at this castle Cersei Lannister would want dead. “…Jon?”

Jaqen said nothing, which told Arya she was right. It only made sense. If Cersei wanted to eliminate all threats to her throne, Jon and Daenerys would need to go. As long as they lived, her reign was not secure, because their claim to the Seven Kingdoms would always be better than hers.

“Is that all, or are there more?”

Jaqen did not answer her at first, his dark eyes flicking from her head to her toes, to the dagger she was holding against his neck. “…I hear that a girl has gotten married.”

“What does that have to do with – ” Arya cut herself off as the realization hit her. She suddenly hurt more than she had when she took the Waif’s stabs to the gut. “ _No_. No, you can’t – ”

“A man was given the names. A man must honor his pledge to the Many-Faced God.”

“Fuck the Many-Faced God!” Tears rushed to Arya’s eyes before she could stop them. _No,_ She thought desperately. _Oh gods, please no…_ She thought of Gendry and how they’d parted at the Crossroads, how he’d kissed her and promised they would be together again soon. She felt like she might start weeping. She did not want to live in a world that didn’t have Gendry in it. _We promised to spend our lives together. It’s not his time yet._ “Is he dead? Is Gendry dead?”  

Jaqen only frowned at her. “A man cannot say. Another servant was sent to give his name to the Many-Faced God…”

Arya took in a deep breath and blinked away the tears in her eyes. _He’s not dead._ She told herself silently. _He can’t be dead. We said from this day until the end of our days, he can’t be dead, I would feel it if he were…_ “You need to call it off.”

“A man can do no such thing. Their names have been given to – ”

“The Many-Faced God, I know! How many times do I have to tell you I don’t give a _shit_ about the Many-Faced God?” The god of death could go to the seven hells for all she cared, the only things that mattered to Arya were Gendry and her family. There had to be a way to save them. She would do anything. “Back in Braavos, you promised my name to the Many-Faced God. Except when the Waif chased me down and tried to kill me, I killed her, and gave the god of death her face. Why can’t we do the same thing? I’ll give your god his three names, just please, _please_ leave my family alone. They don’t deserve this.”    

Jaqen was trying to keep his expression neutral, even with a dagger at his throat, but Arya saw a trace of what she swore was pity in his expression. “Death does not come only for the wicked, girl. It comes for good men, who are just trying to make this world a better place. It comes for women pregnant with their babes. It comes for fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. The Many-Faced God always wins. _Valar morghulis_.”

She could not force herself to speak the customary reply. Arya’s whole body was quivering now, and she did not know if it was from pure grief, or blind rage. She dug her dagger deeper into Jaqen’s neck, just enough to draw blood. “I could kill you.” She found herself saying. “I could slit your throat right now and give the Many-Faced God one of his three lives. I would just have to kill two more people and the debt would be paid. Can you give me a single reason why I shouldn’t?”

Even now, Jaqen would not beg for his life. “A man is not afraid to die.”

“So why can’t you look me in the eyes right now?” The Faceless Man had his eyes downcast, and he said nothing. She’d saved his life from that burning wagon years ago – he could tell her he wasn’t scared to die all he wanted, but Arya knew that deep down he wanted to die as much as she wanted Gendry to. Tears pooled in Arya’s eyes again. She was sad, angry, _desperate_. There was a time when she’d been foolish enough to consider Jaqen a friend, one of the only friends she had in this world, but in this moment she was resolute in her purpose. She hadn’t given up on the people she loved yet, and she was not going to give up on them now. She would do anything to keep them alive, even slit the throat of a man she once admired. “Please, Jaqen. You helped me once before. If I ever meant anything to you at all, give me this one chance.”

Jaqen was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded for Arya to lower the dagger. She did so. “One turn of the moon.” He promised. “You must deliver three lives to the Many-Faced God – if you do not, he shall come to claim those who were promised to him, with or without my help.”

Tentatively, Arya smiled. “Thank you.” Already in her mind, she was thinking of their names. _Cersei Lannister. The Mountain. Qyburn._ She would kill them all.

Except Jaqen was not done. “But,” He said. “It may be too late for your husband. A servant of the Many-Faced God was sent to give his face to the hall. For all a man knows, he may be dead already…”

Arya refused to accept that for an answer. She had suffered many losses in her eighteen years of life, but in this moment she could not even consider the thought that Gendry might be gone. That stubborn bull had already tried to die on her so many times. She would not lose him now. “Then I’ll go to Storm’s End.”

“A man wishes a girl luck. Hopefully she will not be too late.”

Arya could hear the sounds of boots storming up the staircase. When she turned around, she saw Jon return, this time accompanied by Edmure Tully, Ser Jorah, the Hound, and members of the Riverrun guard. Jon froze in the doorway, a look of bewilderment appearing on his face. “Where is he?”

When she turned back, Jaqen had vanished from the spot where he’d been standing a moment earlier. The window was open and Arya stuck her head out. It was a large drop and she thought to herself that surely no man could jump from there without at least breaking both his legs, but there was no sign of the assassin anywhere…

Regardless, she did not have time to wonder how Jaqen had accomplished his disappearing act. “I need a horse saddled.” She told her uncle. “Now.”

Lord Edmure looked at her with confusion. “It is nearly midnight. Wherever you must go, surely it can wait until the morning – ”

Arya cut him off. “I’m telling you, uncle, it cannot.” She looked to Jon. “Cersei sent the Faceless Men after you and Daenerys, and there’s another one headed to Storm’s End to kill Gendry. I need to go.”

Jon frowned. “Arya, Storm’s End is at least a sennight’s ride from here. I care about Gendry too, but if there’s really someone after him, how are you going to make it in time?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Arya told him. She knew it may be a lost cause, but she had to try. This was Gendry, and she would not give up on him so easily. She never had before and she was not going to start now. “I’ll ride through the night every night if that’s what it takes.”  

_Cersei Lannister. The Mountain. Qyburn._

Reluctantly, Jon nodded. “All right. Promise me you’ll be safe. And at least take some men with you – ”

The Hound stepped forward. “I’ll go with the little wolf bitch, Your Grace.”

Arya looked at him. “I don’t need a grumpy old man looking after me. I’m not going to stop until I get to Storm’s End, I’m not going to slow down for you – ”

The Hound snorted. “As if I’d want you to. I’m trying to help you here, wolf bitch. So, do you want to save your smith or what?”

Arya could not help but smile slightly at his words. _Cersei Lannister._ She thought to herself. _The Mountain. Qyburn._ She turned to Jon determinedly. “That settles it then. I am going to Storm’s End. I am going to save my husband.”

Arya just hoped that Gendry would still be alive when she got there.

* * *

**SAMWELL**

When he awoke the next morning, Gilly’s side of the bed was cold. Little Sam had climbed into bed with them last night after the feast, and Sam sat up carefully, so as not to wake him. The boy was still sleeping peacefully, smack in the middle of their bed, hogging most of the blankets so that half of Sam’s body was uncovered.

He got up and found the door to the privy closed. “Gilly?” He called softly. When there was no answer at first, he rapped lightly on the door. “Are you in there?”

He could hear the faint noises of shuffling, and then the door opened just enough that he could see Gilly’s face. Her hair was tangled and her face was pale and drawn. She glanced to make sure that Little Sam was still asleep on the bed. “You can come in.”

Sam joined her in the small privy adjoining their guest chamber, and Gilly closed the door behind him. “What’s the matter?” Sam asked her. “You look worried.”

Gilly paused, and bit her lip. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

At her words, Sam frowned. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about too.”

“Maybe you should go first…”

Gilly sat down on the floor, her back pressed up against the wall, next to the chamber pot. She looked so pale that Sam thought she might faint if she stayed standing for much longer. He wet his lips, trying to think of how best to broach this subject, and then silently decided to just get on with it. “…I’m sending you back to Horn Hill.”

Gilly only stared at him for a long moment after he spoke, her brown eyes blinking slowly. “You what?”

Sam gulped, and tried to sound firmer as he repeated the words. “I’m sending you back to Horn Hill. You and Little Sam. You’ll be safer there.”

His wife opened her mouth, but no words came out at first. “But why?” She said. “The king and queen are headed to King’s Landing. You said after they take the throne back, we were going to Highgarden together. And now you want to send me away? What happened to us sticking together, all of us?”

_Where you go, I go too._ Sam remembered he had told her that once. Gilly hadn’t reacted well the first time he’d tried to send her away either. “Trust me, I don’t like it either. But this is war, and it’s dangerous. Cersei Lannister sent an assassin after Jon and the queen – the man tried to kill her last night, Gilly, and now he’s on the loose. I would sleep easier knowing that you and Little Sam were at Horn Hill with my mother and Talla, away from all of this.”

“Fine, but then you should come to Horn Hill with us.”

Oh, Sam wanted to – but he knew he could not. “Daenerys named me Warden of the South. As much as I wish I could go with you, I need to be here with her and Jon. They’re my king and queen Gilly, and I’m their lord. They need me.”

He expected Gilly to protest further, but she surprised him when her eyes suddenly welled up. “You think I don’t need you too?” She asked, her voice thick from oncoming tears. “I’m your wife, Sam. You made promises to me too you know…you said we’d always be together, for the rest of our lives…”

Sam suddenly felt like the most awful person in the world, realizing he’d made her upset. He knelt down on the floor in front of her as Gilly began to cry and he placed his hands on her knees. “Look at me,” He said gently, trying to calm her down. “I love you. You know I love you. And we are going to be together for the rest of our lives. Once this war is over, we’ll go to Highgarden just like we said, and we’ll start a new life…”

Gilly sniffled and looked up at him, her eyes now rimmed by tears. “I don’t want you to go. I need you. I’m…I’m…”

“You’re wha – ” He started to ask, but Gilly gave him a look, and Sam cut himself off as he put the pieces together in his mind. She had been tired lately, and more emotional…she’d been getting sick in the privy this morning before he woke up…and she’d said she had something to tell him… _Oh._ “Gilly,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you…are you pregnant?”

She could only nod in response and then she collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

Sam lifted up his arms to hug her, running a hand through her hair as he tried to overcome his shock. _Pregnant?_ He thought she’d been taking her tea. Not to say that he didn’t want a child – he _did_ , of course he did – but he thought they’d agreed to wait with the war and all…and oh gods how did she feel about this… “Are…are you sure? How long have you known?”

“I’ve had my suspicions for about a month, but…but I was only certain about a week or two ago…” She sat up again and looked at Sam, her crying having stopped, but tears still running down her cheeks. “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad?” Sam repeated. “Why on earth would I be mad?” He kissed the tears away from one of her cheeks, and her skin tasted salty. “I…I think it’s wonderful.”

The corners of her lips turned up in a tentative smile. “You do?” Based on the softening of her eyes and the uptick in her voice, she seemed generally surprised at Sam’s response.

“Of course.” How could he be mad about having a baby with her? Gilly was already a wonderful mother to Little Sam, and Sam loved his wife and son more than anything else in this world, so adding a new member to their family could only add to his happiness. Maybe a girl with her eyes and her smile, though a baby brother for Little Sam would not be bad either…But, Sam realized, this news only made him more certain his initial decision was the right one. As much as he wanted her by his side, especially now, an army camp marching towards battle was no place for a pregnant woman with no military experience and a four-year-old little boy. “I don’t want you to go either.” He told Gilly. “But I think this is the right thing to do. I know you don’t like it, but please, go to Horn Hill. If not for yourself, then for Little Sam and the new baby. I don’t want anything to happen to any of you, and my mother and Talla will look after you.”

Finally, Gilly nodded. “All right.” She conceded. “I’ll go. But promise me you’ll be safe. I worry about you, Sam.”

He kissed her lightly on the lips in response. “I promise.” He smiled, his hand falling to rest gently on her stomach. “After all, I’m going to have to meet this one in about seven months, aren’t I? Maybe it will be a girl like you.”

He suspected the tears in Gilly’s eyes were for a different reason this time. “I don’t know – I think it might be a boy. But I’d be happy either way.”

“Me too.”

Gilly smiled, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “I love you, Sam. And I wouldn’t want to do any of this without you.”

Sam silently hoped she would never have to.

* * *

**TYRION**

Riverrun was quiet the morning after the feast. Some of the men were just too drunk and kept to their beds, as they attempted to sleep off their throbbing headaches, but Tyrion was up since the crack of dawn. He’d been stirred from his sleep by the sound of a knocking at his door, and there had been Ser Jorah, Lord Commander of the Crownsguard, to tell him that an assassin had been sent after the king and queen. Needless to say, Tyrion did not get any more sleep that night.

The queen had assured him that she was quite all right, just a bit shaken up. Jon Snow, Lord Tully, Ser Jorah, Jaime, and some other men searched the entire premises, looking for any signs of the assassin, but he was without a doubt gone, as if he’d disappeared into thin air. They could not even find any footprints in the snow to indicate in which direction he might’ve walked. It was as if he had never been there at all.

They needed to march on King’s Landing now more than ever. Tyrion hoped that they would hear from Lord Baratheon or Ser Davos soon – the king’s sister had apparently taken off for Storm’s End with the Hound in the night, in hopes of thwarting Cersei's plots. As for the Westerlands, he’d had a few minor houses respond to his request for military aid – House Hetherspoon, House Yarwyck, House Algood, and House Drox – and the Paynes were so far their biggest get by a landslide. The Crakehalls might give them a few men now, after Jaime managed to convince Ser Merlon to write to his brother. The other principal bannerman of House Lannister had not even bothered to respond to his ravens, though Tyrion was not surprised by that. Perhaps a few minor lords or landed knights would switch to their side now that the Paynes were publicly declared against Cersei, but that was all he felt he could hope for.

Tyrion was walking down the halls, headed towards the queen’s chambers, when he saw two women slip from one of the bedrooms. They were two servants he recognized from the feast last night, and both of them were wearing the same frocks they’d had on the night before. One had her hair mussed, the laces on her bodice untied, while the other was missing her stockings and she blushed when she saw Tyrion looking at them. “M’lord.” The serving girls mumbled shyly, before they brushed past him and raced back downstairs to the servants’ quarters.

Tyrion looked at the door they’d come out of and recognized whose room it was. Before he could even stop to think about what he was doing, he burst inside. “Ser Harrold?”

The knight was lying face down in bed, the blankets covering his lower half, while his naked chest was exposed. At the sound of Tyrion’s voice, Ser Harrold jumped up, looking startled. “My lord Hand,” He gasped. “Is…is something the matter?”

“Yes, in fact. Someone attempted to murder the queen last night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Harry the Heir looked at him with wide eyes. “Not at all, my lord. Do you know who did it? Should I start a search for the man?”

“The king and Lord Tully have already done that.” Tyrion informed him. “You would’ve known that I suppose, if you weren’t so busy with your…” He paused. “ _Friends_.”

He expected Harry to have some sort of shame, but instead he only got out of bed, tying the blankets around his waist to cover his nudity. “I don’t see how any of that is your business, Lord Tyrion. I’ve heard that you enjoyed the company of women in your youth as well. It’s not a crime.”

“Does your betrothed know that you enjoy the company of women so?”

Harrold Hardyng barked out a laugh. “If it is Lady Stark you are concerned for, my lord, she is not my betrothed yet. Though I made her a generous offer – if I do say so myself – and I’m expecting it will not be long now before she accepts me. Don’t worry, I’m usually more discreet, but the wine got to my head last night. I do not want to bring any shame to Lady Stark. I care for her, Lord Tyrion – as you do, I suspect?"

Tyrion stared at the floor, unable to answer him.

“Yes,” Ser Harrold said. “That’s what I thought. If you really do love Lady Stark, my lord, I hope you will accept her decision. It would be a shame for her to lose your friendship, I know she cherishes it.”

He gulped. The thought of Sansa marrying Ser Harrold made his stomach churn, but it was not his business to tell her who she could or could not be with. If the betrothal was practically a done deal as Harry said, then he would have to live with it, and wish her well. But there was another part of him that thought he needed to talk to her, to tell her he’d made a mistake…

“I want Sansa to be happy.” He told Ser Harrold. “More than anything.”

The other man nodded and puttered about his chamber, pulling an undershirt over his head. “That’s good to hear. Once we are betrothed, I may need to call upon you to testify in front of a Council of Faith -”   

Now Tyrion was confused. “A Council of Faith? What for?”

Ser Harrold was in the middle of pulling a blue velvet doublet on, but he paused from fastening the buttons, looking at Tyrion. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Does _she_ know?”

Tyrion repeated himself. “Again, know what?”

The young knight stared at him for a second, then laughed. “My lord…you are legally still Sansa Stark’s husband.”

Tyrion did not know what he’d been expecting Harrold Hardyng to say, but it wasn’t that. His knees buckled and he grabbed onto a nearby end table to steady himself, fearing he might keel over. “…What?”

“Your marriage was never annulled.”

“Of course it was! She…she married Bolton…” Tyrion’s head was spinning. _Legally Sansa’s husband._ He did not know what to feel.

Hardyng sighed and finished putting on his doublet. “When Lord Baelish decided to marry Lady Stark to the late Bolton bastard, he petitioned the High Septon to have your marriage to Lady Stark set aside, on the grounds that it was never consummated. Except, given what was going on with the Sparrows at that time, the petition was never processed. In the eyes of gods and men, you are still her husband – at least, for now.”

Tyrion shook his head and snapped out of his daze. He needed to speak with Sansa, now more than ever. “I need some time to think.” He told Ser Harrold. “I’d hold off on making any wedding preparations until I can speak to my…” He trailed off. He’d almost called her “my wife”. “Until I can speak with Lady Stark.”

“Now wishing to claim your marital rights, my lord Hand?” Harrold said. “I suppose that is within your legal rights…but Sansa’s chosen me. Do you really wish to entrap her in a marriage she doesn’t want to be in? If you have any love for her at all, let her go.”

_I do love her._ The thought came so easily to him. He was sure of it now. “I told you I want Sansa to be happy more than anything, and I meant that. But she doesn’t even know that we are technically still married. She should have all the facts before she makes her decision, and whatever choice she makes, I will respect that.” _Even if she chooses not to be with me._ “Sansa deserves a husband who will cherish her. She is an one-of-a-kind woman. She’s…” He sighed. “She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”  

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and his heart was beating so fast he feared it may burst from his chest. He needed to see Sansa. Tyrion turned to head towards her rooms, but then he paused.

Standing there in the hallway was Sansa, and there were tears in her eyes.

Tyrion’s heart dropped. “…How much of that did you hear?” He asked. Sansa said nothing in reply, just wiping the tears from her eyes, and that told Tyrion she’d heard every word of it. He crossed the hall and impulsively took one of her hands in his own, wanting to comfort her somehow. “I am sorry, my lady.”

She sniffled. “Don’t be, it’s not your fault. You did not know either…” She wiped her eyes and laughed humorlessly. “So I was never really married to Ramsay then. I do not know if that makes it better, or worse. On one hand, he was never my husband, but on the other hand, that means I let him defile me for no reason…”

Tyrion cut her off. “Don’t say that. You didn’t let him do anything to you. It wasn’t your fault, none of it.”

She nodded and looked down at him. There were no more tears in her eyes, but her blue eyes were rimmed with red, and her lashes were wet. “Did you mean what you said? Do you…do you really think so highly of me?”

“Even more so.” Tyrion had always considered himself a smart man, a quick-witted man, but right now he did not know if he had the words to properly convey to her the depth of his emotions. This love he had for her was so strong, stronger than any he’d ever felt before, so complicated and so confusing, but also so _right_. “I understand if you want to marry Harry. But before you make up your mind, I just have to tell you…that I don’t simply think highly of you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, not since the day I saw you again at Winterfell months ago. I’ve been trying to deny my feelings, and I know you deserve better, but I can’t deny it anymore. I’m in love with you, and I’d…I’d like to give our marriage another try, for real this time. But if you don’t feel the same way, then I understand, and I wholeheartedly wish you the best. More than anything I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me. That is how much I love you.”

For a long moment, Sansa said nothing, but she did not drop his hand, rubbing circles with her thumb. “…Care to walk me back to my chambers?”

Tyrion nodded. “Of course.”  

They walked in silence back down the hall for several moments, but Sansa was still holding onto his hand, squeezing it gently. “This is a lot for me to take in.” She finally said as they came to a stop in front of her closed door. “I never thought this was even a possibility. I thought…well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong.” Her blue eyes met his green ones. “I’ve had quite a shock today, and I need some time to think about where I want to go from here. But I must tell you…I must tell you, Lord Tyrion, that I care for you so very deeply. I respect you, and I’m fond of you, and I think we could have a good life together. We’d need to work out the details but…I think we could make each other happy. It’s just a lot to consider.”

Tyrion could feel hope rising in his chest, but he suppressed it. She still had not said yes. “I’m willing to try again if you are.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Take all the time you need to think it over. I’ll be waiting for as long as you need. Good day, my lady.”

“Thank you, Tyrion.” She dropped his hand, but before Sansa could turn to enter her chambers, she surprised him by bending down to kiss him quickly on the lips. It was chaste, sweet, and over all too soon. “Good day, my lord.” She said, before fleeing into her rooms and shutting the door behind her.

* * *

**BRIENNE**

A few days later, when the assassin could still not be found, it was decided that they would proceed forward with the march, the king and the queen to be kept under constant guard. “We are going to march our armies down towards Harrenhal,” King Jon said, pointing at the map laid across the table in Lord Tully’s study. The queen was standing next to her husband, the Lord of Riverrun on his other side, while his wife was next to him. On the other side of Queen Daenerys were Lord Tyrion, Ser Jorah, and Lord Jaime. “There we’ll wait for reinforcements, and once they’ve arrived, we’ll lay siege to King’s Landing.”

Brienne looked at Lady Sansa. The younger woman had been awfully quiet these past few days, always looking like she was deep in silent contemplation. Though her eyes were currently trained on the map, she did not look like she was really _seeing_ it, just staring off into space. Brienne leaned over to her. “Are you all right?”

Lady Sansa’s head snapped up. “Quite.” She whispered back. “I just…got lost in my thoughts for a moment…”

Meanwhile, the king was continuing to talk through their strategy. “We’ll come down from the north, while the Martells will march in from the south. The Greyjoys will sail their ships from Saltpans, through the Bay of Crabs, and then to King’s Landing. Queen Daenerys and I will ride Drogon and Rhaegal. We’ll assault the city on all sides.”

“Our target is the Red Keep.” The queen added. “We are going to liberate the city, not destroy it.”

Lord Tully nodded. “I’ve called my banners. We will help you destroy Cersei Lannister and her armies. I only ask that you allow some of my guard to hold Riverrun, and keep Roslin and Axel safe.” Lady Roslin smiled up at her husband, and he touched her cheek.

“Of course,” The king agreed. “We will need Lady Tully to safely hold the Riverlands until our victory is secure.”

“I will write to Lord Payne and tell him to lead the forces from the Westerlands to Harrenhal.” Jaime said. “Hopefully we will hear from Ser Davos or Lord Baratheon soon about the Stormlands.”

“Are we sure about the Sand Snakes?” Tyrion asked. “We haven’t heard from them since Queen Yara and Prince Theon visited them at Sunspear.”

“The Queen of the Iron Islands has assured me that their help will come.” Daenerys replied. “I trust her. And even _if_ Dorne does not come to our aid, we will still have to proceed with the attack anyway. We can’t waste time.”

They were interrupted when the door opened, and a messenger stepped inside. “A letter for you, my lord.”

Lord Tully accepted the raven scroll from his outstretched hand and unfurled it, reading silently. As they stared at him, Brienne saw a shadow cross Edmure Tully’s face. Whatever the scroll said, it was not good news. “Uncle?” Sansa said. “What news?”

Lord Tully glanced at – of all people – Jaime. “I’m so sorry.”

Now, they were all just more confused. “What does it say?” Sansa repeated, and Lord Tully only shook his head, handing the scroll to her. Brienne leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse, while Sansa read aloud. “On the orders of Queen Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, all ruling lords and ladies of Westeros are hereby summoned to King’s Landing, to reaffirm their loyalty and swear fealty to the rightful queen, as well as to her son – ”

Sansa cut herself off mid-breath, and Brienne immediately looked to Jaime. He was staring at Sansa and all the color had drained from his face. Brienne opened her mouth, wanting to say something to comfort him, but no words came out.

Sansa gulped, and continued. “As well as to her son, Prince Tywin of House Lannister, Prince of Dragonstone, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne. All those who fail to do so are in open rebellion, and will be punished with the full force of the Iron Throne’s power. In the name of Her Grace Queen Cersei, long may she reign.”

After Sansa finished reading, none of them said anything for a moment, shock etched all over their pale faces. Tyrion moved first, reaching out for his brother’s arm. “Jaime – ”

Jaime wrenched away. “Leave me alone.” He said darkly, before brushing past them and out of the room, storming off down the corridor.

The king cleared his throat. “This is clearly a strategy on Cersei’s part. If lords and ladies will be coming into the city with their families, that increases the civilian population of King’s Landing by a significant margin, effectively creating a wall of protection for herself – ”

But Brienne did not stay to hear him finish his sentence. “Excuse me.” She mumbled to Sansa, turning on her heel to follow Jaime out of the room before she could respond.

She chased him up the stairs to his guest chamber, and when she got there, he was pulling out drawers and furiously throwing a seemingly random collection of items into a bag.

“Jaime!”

“I have to go.” He barked, not looking at her. “You can’t talk me out of it this time, Brienne. I’m going to King’s Landing, and I am going to kill her, or die trying – ”

“ _Jaime_.” She repeated, firmer this time. “If you go to King’s Landing on your own, you will die. It’s a suicide mission, I won’t let you – ”

Jaime spun around to face her, his jaw set. “She has _my son_ , Brienne!” He snapped, his voice as sharp as a slap to the face. “I was a horrible father to my first three children, I will not make those mistakes again! So get out of my way and let me go, because if you don’t, I swear I will – ”

Brienne crossed the room to reach him and grabbed his arms, causing Jaime to drop the bag he was holding onto the floor. Brienne would not back down, looking him in the eyes. “Just listen to me. You can’t be a good father if you’re dead. If you go to King’s Landing on your own, you don’t stand a chance. You _will_ die Jaime, and what good will that do your child? Your son needs you alive. _I_ need you alive.”

At her words, the spark of anger in his eyes faded away into shame. He looked down, unable to meet her gaze.

With a sigh, Brienne cupped his cheeks, so close to him now that their foreheads were touching. “You know I’m with you. I’m always with you. But I won’t let you go and get yourself killed. We are going to get your son back, Jaime. Please, just trust me.”  

“I do trust you.” Jaime glanced up at her. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I just…I just don’t know…”

She shushed him gently. “It’s all right. You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry too…”

Her hands were still on his face and as he looked up at her, their noses brushed, and their lips were now only mere inches apart. Slowly, Jaime moved to touch her waist and she brought his face closer, their lips meeting. They kissed slowly at first, and then with more fervor. Brienne’s hands fell from his face and she wrapped her arms around his neck, their bodies pressed against each other’s.

Reluctantly, Brienne pulled back just slightly, so she could speak. “Jaime?”

“Yes wench?”

“…Dishonor me.”  

She opened her eyes and found Jaime staring at her, a look on his face that was something akin to desire. “Wench, your maidenhead - ”

She cut him off. “I don’t care about my maidenhead. I just want you.”

In response his lips surged forward to kiss her again, and one of her hands cupped the back of his head, her fingers running through his hair. Jaime untucked her shirt and then removed her belt, and she fumbled with the buttons on his pants, pulling them down. He kicked off his boots and stepped out of them, then broke away from the kiss to help her take her shirt off. They pulled it over her head and Brienne threw it on the floor.

Jaime stepped back to remove his jerkin. He smirked and nodded at her. “You have too many clothes on, wench. I want them off. Now.”

She could feel her cheeks flush. “Yes, ser.” She watched as he shed his layers, revealing his bare chest, still thin and toned even in his middle age. She suddenly felt self-conscious as she removed her smallclothes, exposing her small breasts. She knew she didn’t have a very nice chest – it was almost as flat as a man’s, covered in freckles and a few scars she’d taken over the years.

As Brienne discarded her pants, she noticed that Jaime had paused from undressing, his hands frozen on his smallclothes. He was just staring at her, lips slightly parted, eyes dreamy. “What?” She breathed. Was she really that ugly? She felt a sudden urge to cross her arms over her breasts, to cover herself, to spare herself from embarrassment.

But Jaime only shook his head and pulled her in for a kiss again, his thumb rubbing across her cheek in a way that could only be described as loving. His lips moved from her mouth to behind her ear, and then onto her neck. “You’re beautiful.” He mumbled against her. “Gods, you’re so beautiful…”

And the way he said it, she really, truly believed it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Gilly II, Gendry IV, Arya V, Sansa IV. Hope everyone still wants to keep reading after this mess of a season! I know some people really just want to dip out of the fandom, but writing fic has really made me feel better after how disappointed I was originally.


	11. Ours is the Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilly arrives at her new home; Gendry takes Storm's End; Arya rushes to save a life; Sansa decides who she wants to be with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a little longer than usual! At least it's a long one, and pretty eventful. Thank you all for your sweet comments. I read each and every one of them.

**GILLY**

“Welcome to Horn Hill, Lady Tarly.”

Gilly stepped out from the carriage and into the courtyard, Little Sam’s hand clutched in her own. The sky was blue, the air cool. Looking around at Horn Hill’s courtyard, she was reminded of the last time she’d been here with Sam.

“Lady Gilly!”

Talla raced towards her and practically tackled her as she threw her arms about her, the strength of her embrace nearly enough to knock Gilly over. She laughed and hugged her back. “Hello, Talla.”

Her goodsister pulled back, smiling. “Mother and I thought we might never see you again! Oh, I am so glad you’re back. If only Sam could be with us, then everything would be perfect – ”

Lady Tarly walked out to meet them halfway as Talla escorted her to the castle. Well, technically _she_ was Lady Tarly now, Gilly had to remind herself. She was still not used to that. “M’lady,” She said to her mother-in-law. “It is good to see you.”

“And you as well, my dear.” Lady Melessa said warmly, taking her hands. “I insist, you must call me Goodmother. You’re family.” With a smile, she bent down to address Little Sam. “And this cannot be my grandson! You’ve gotten so big. You’ll be tall as I am soon.”

Little Sam glanced at Gilly nervously, and she nodded, encouraging him to say what they had practiced in the ride here. “My lady grandmother.”

Melessa and Talla both smiled and laughed, and Lady Melessa kissed Little Sam’s head. “None of that,” She told him. “You can just call me Grandma. Would you like to come inside? I told my cook to make some sweets for you, the same kinds your father liked when he was a boy.” Little Sam eagerly looked to Gilly for permission.

“Just don’t spoil your appetite. We’re having supper soon.” Little Sam nodded and gleefully followed his grandmother, while Talla took Gilly’s arm.

“You must be so tired. I’ll tell the maids to draw a bath for you before we eat. Oh, this dress looks so lovely on you! Such a pretty blue. You know my seamstress just made some new dresses for me, but some of them just aren’t in my colors. I look so _terrible_ in green, but I think it might look nice on you, if you want it…”

Gilly wanted to tell her that she probably wouldn’t fit in it for much longer, but she bit her tongue and smiled, glad to have a friend here at Horn Hill at least.

Instead of dining in the hall liked they did last time she was here, Lady Melessa said they would eat in her private solar, since it was only the four of them. “I’ve had the lady’s chambers made up for you.” She said as they sat down to eat.

“Oh,” Gilly said. “But those are your rooms! I would not want to – ”

“Nonsense!” Talla interrupted. “You’re Lady Tarly now. You must have the lady’s chambers. Oh, and remind me to introduce you to your lady’s maid. She will help you with anything you may require…” Gilly blushed, but said nothing. The thought of her having the grandest chambers in the castle, and a maid whose sole job was to tend to her needs, was so foreign to her. She did not like people making a fuss over her.

Servants came around and placed trays of food down on the table. There were mashed turnips, roasted vegetables, biscuits, peach tartlets, a whole suckling pig… “I’m sorry if the meat is not as fresh as the last time you were here.” Lady Melessa said. “No one here has gone hunting in quite a while. But perhaps one of our household guards could take you out to the woods, if you’d like.”

Gilly’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’m a good hunter.”

“Yes,” Lady Melessa laughed. “I remember.”

“Do you think…” Talla began shyly. “Do you think you could teach me? I know it’s not very ladylike…but I think I’d like to learn. It might be fun.”

Gilly smiled at her. “Of course.” Talla smiled back, and they all helped themselves to some food. The thought of a freshly slaughtered rabbit or a deer was enough to make Gilly’s mouth water – the baby was craving them, it seemed – but she did not know if her stomach was strong enough for her to slaughter them herself. “Maybe not right now, but someday I’d be happy to teach you.”

They all began to eat, Talla chattering happily about her new dresses or her music lessons. A servant came around to pour some wine into Gilly’s cup, but she held her hand over it in refusal. “No thank you. I’m fine with water.” The servant nodded and Gilly pushed her food around her plate, eating a few bites of pork and not touching her turnips, which smelled particularly awful to her for some reason. She looked up, finding Lady Melessa’s eyes on her, and hoped she was not being rude. “The food is wonderful – ”

“I wasn’t thinking of the food.” The older woman gave her a knowing look. “How far gone are you?”

Gilly blushed as her mother and sister-in-law both stared at her. One of her hands fell to her belly. “A little less than three turns of the moon.”

Talla’s eyes were sparkling. “Perhaps it will be a girl! Wouldn’t that be fun? A little girl to dress up, and to braid her hair…”  

“I don’t know, I think it may be another boy.” Gilly did not want to dull her goodsister’s happiness, so she did not tell her how certain she was that the baby she was carrying was a boy. She did not know why she was so sure, she just felt it deep within her, like some part of her already knew.

“Oh, little boys are wonderful.” Lady Melessa said, smiling down at Sam, who was happily eating a peach tart. “They just love their mothers.” She paused, a faraway look in her eye. Gilly supposed she was thinking of Dickon.

She cleared her throat. “I…I was sorry, to hear what happened to Sam’s brother. And father.” In truth, she’d shed no tears over Randyll Tarly, and she had not lost one moment of sleep thinking about how he died. He’d deserved it. But she knew Sam loved Dickon.

“Thank you,” Lady Melessa said. “It is Dickon I miss the most…My poor baby boy. I told Randyll he wasn’t ready for a battle like that, that he was too young and foolish, but he didn’t listen. He never listened. I won’t speak ill of the dead, but that man took both my sons from me, one way or the other…” She shook her head. “The pain of losing one of your children never leaves you. I pray you will never have to experience it.”  

The bed Gilly slept in that night was the most comfortable she’d had since Winterfell. It was so large and plush that she felt like it might swallow her whole. Typically she slept on the right side of the bed, but without Sam here beside her, she feared it might feel too empty. She situated herself smack in the middle of the featherbed, the blankets pulled up to her chin, and the bed was still so large that she could stretch both her arms out and not quite touch the edge.

“Mummy?”

She sat up. Little Sam was standing in the doorway in his bedclothes, looking bashful. “What is it, Sammy?”

Sam paused. “…I miss Daddy. Can I sleep with you?”

Logically Gilly knew that she should send the boy back to his chambers – he was almost five, and he needed to sleep in his own room – but seeing the look on his face, all she wanted was to tell Little Sam that she missed his daddy too. She opened her arms for him. “Come here.” Little Sam crawled into bed with her and wrapped his arms around her, his face burrowed against her chest. They slept like that, all snuggled up in the middle of that too large bed.

Over the next few days at Horn Hill they began a routine. The maids would bring Gilly and Little Sam breakfast in her chambers. Little Sam would spend his days playing with other children – the cook had a son Sam’s age, and they quickly became best friends. When the cook first saw them playing together, she immediately apologized to Gilly that her son was bothering hers, but Gilly insisted that it was nothing like that. She knew perhaps it was not proper for the Warden of the South’s son to play with the child of a simple cook, but it was also not proper for a former man of the Night’s Watch to take a Free Folk woman to wife, so Gilly did not care much for what was proper. She was just happy Little Sam had a friend who could help him get his mind off how much he missed his father.

Gilly would spend her days exploring the castle. Some days she would go to the library and read the books Sam had read as a young boy – she wanted to see the things he had seen, to know the things he knew. Lady Melessa worked on her sewing or embroidery, and sometimes Gilly would sit with her and help. Her knowledge of sewing was moreso limited to stitching up holes in socks or repurposing old wool, practical things like that, but her mother-in-law taught her how to embroider handkerchiefs with roses or the Tarly family sigil, which was an archer. Lady Melessa suggested that together they could knit some clothes for the forthcoming child, and Gilly thought it was a wonderful idea. Frequently they would listen to Talla practice her harp as they worked, or she would sing to them. She had a very fine voice, Gilly thought, much better than her own.

This was what they were doing the day the riders showed up.

Gilly and Lady Melessa were knitting some baby socks in Tarly green, and Talla was sitting at her harp, playing them a lively song about a pretty, shy maiden and a foolish knight who loved her. Little Sam was reading a picture book on the floor when the door to the solar burst open violently. “Forgive me, ma’am.” said Lady Melessa’s handmaiden, who looked as pale as Gilly had ever seen her.

A man shoved the girl aside and burst into the room. He had a young face, and though he could be no older than thirty-five, he was already balding. His eyes were dark and beady, the hair missing from his head covering his cheeks and chin in a thick brown beard. The sigil on his doublet was that of an apple, and he had a sword sheathed at one hip, a dagger at the other. Though Gilly did not know who he was, Lady Melessa and Talla seemed to, as they both rose to their feet. “Ser Tanton,” Lady Melessa said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“This is no pleasure, I’m afraid.” The man said. Three men, all also armed, appeared behind him.

Lady Melessa looked back and forth at them, confusion on her face. Instinctively Gilly picked Little Sam off the floor, holding him against her chest. “What is the meaning of this?” Lady Melessa asked. “You show up at my home with an army? Ser Tanton, my husband and my son died fighting for Cersei Lannister. We have no men left.”

“It is not your men I want.” Ser Tanton turned to Lady Talla. “Lord Symun Fossoway, the rightful Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, will be returning to King’s Landing soon. You ladies are summoned there to swear your allegiance to Queen Cersei and her heir, and so the Lady Talla may wed Lord Symun, in accordance with the arrangement brokered by Lord Tarly before he passed. You must also disavow Samwell Tarly, the pretender who calls himself Lord of Highgarden.”  

Poor Talla looked terrified. She raced to her mother’s side and Lady Melessa wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “This is how you would treat your cousin’s betrothed? This is absurd! And why should I disavow my own son, the only son who remains to me in this life? I won’t hear of it.”  

“You forget why you only have one son, Lady Tarly.” Ser Tanton said. “It is because of the Dragon Queen that your husband and your other son are dead. Come with us and pledge allegiance to Queen Cersei, and they will be avenged. I’m afraid that if you will not go willingly, then my men will have no choice but to drag you out – alive, or otherwise.”

Clutching Little Sam closer to her chest, Gilly looked around. Her and Lady Melessa’s knitting needles were lying on the table, within her reach. She could pick one up and charge at Ser Tanton, drive the pointy end into his eye, or perhaps his throat. But she knew that if she killed him, one of the guards would simply draw his sword and kill her. She did not want to go with him, but she feared it was her only choice. It was one thing to risk her own life, it was another to risk Little Sam’s or her unborn baby’s.

Lady Melessa began to protest. “If you think threatening us with violence will – ”

Gilly cut her off. “No – we’ll go with Ser Tanton willingly, Goodmother. He is right, we owe loyalty to the _rightful_ queen.” She squeezed her mother-in-law’s hand, hoping Lady Melessa could understand what she was doing. Then she calmly pulled away and approached Ser Tanton. “Good ser, would you allow us a few moments to gather our belongings and prepare ourselves for the journey? As of now we are not dressed properly to receive Her Grace.”

Ser Tanton gave her a wary look, but nodded. “Very well. Be quick about it.”

Gilly forced herself to smile at him, and moved to Lady Melessa’s handmaiden. “Hilda, you must watch the castle while we are gone. Farewell.” She mimicked like she was going to kiss the girl on the cheek, but instead she pressed her lips against her ear. “They’re going to Harrenhal,” She whispered. “Send a raven to my husband. Tell him what has happened.”

When she pulled away, Hilda smiled at her. “I will, m’lady. May the Mother bless you, and may the Father judge our enemies justly.” The two women exchanged a conspiratorial glance and Gilly tried to maintain her mask of submission as she turned back towards Ser Tanton.

“Lead the way, ser.”    

* * *

**GENDRY**

His hammer was still in his hand and dripping blood as he stepped over the corpses lining the fields outside of Storm’s End. Some of the men had been stabbed, others shot with arrows, and there were quite a few who had taken his hammer to their heads. They had all kinds of sigils on their clothes, most of which Gendry did not recognize, since they were all from the Westerlands or the Reach, part of the army Cersei sent with Symun Fossoway to hold Storm’s End for the Trants.

Gendry’s boots were covered in dirt and dried blood, and he stepped over a man who had taken a wound to the neck that nearly cut his head clean off. “Did Lord Fossoway escape?” He asked Ser Davos.

The other man nodded. “With Cersei’s surviving men, m’lord. As for Manfred Trant, he and his sons fled Storm’s End from the back, rather than face our armies. Lord Tarth and Lord Selmy went after them, but were unsuccessful. He’s probably fleeing to King’s Landing.”

“How old are the sons?”

“Fifteen and thirteen, I believe.” Ser Davos told him. “However, Lord Trant’s daughter is in House Buckler’s custody. Some of Ser Brus’s men found her as she tried to escape.”

“Her father left without her?” Gendry found it hard to believe that Lord Trant would run away with both his sons, but leave his daughter behind. Another lord might’ve made the girl suffer for her father’s treasons, but Gendry would not do that. She’d probably had no say in the matter. “And what of the lords who pledged themselves to the Trants?”

“They all surrendered, m’lord. They’re in the great hall waiting to hear your judgment.”

“All right,” Gendry said. “Have Lord Trant’s daughter brought before me as well.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

When he entered the great hall, Ser Davos behind him, every head in the room turned to stare. Lords Selmy, Dondarrion and Tarth and Ser Brus Buckler were among them, as well as other lords who had been summoned to Storm’s End by raven. Every lord, lady or landed knight was supposed to come to swear their allegiance, and Gendry know found himself taking in dozens of strange faces. He found Lady Marya, with Devan, Stannis and Steffon beside her, and Mya and Bella were seated in chairs at the head of the room. There was a larger chair in between them, and Gendry realized it was meant for him.

“Presenting Lord Gendry of the House Baratheon,” Davos said. “Rightful Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, by the grace of King Jon and Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, First of Their Names.”

The lords cleared a path for him as he approached the dais, and Gendry felt overwhelmed as many bent their heads to him, with murmurings of “my lord”. Ser Davos went to stand between Devan and Marya, and Gendry climbed the steps to sit in his chair, between Mya and Bella. Mya was surely as overwhelmed as he felt, though she schooled her face into a neutral expression, and Bella smiled and winked at him. She was much more comfortable with attention than Gendry was.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, my lords. I appreciate your being here today.”

A middle-aged man in a black and white surcoat stepped forward. “Allow me to say, my lord, you are the splitting image of your father in his youth, and your sisters have all the beauty befitting women of their rank. There is no doubt you are your father’s children. May King Robert rest in peace.” There were murmurs of “here, here” or “may he rest in peace”.

“All the beauty befitting women of our rank?” Mya muttered under her breath. “Oh, please…”

“Hey,” Bella whispered back. “Speak for yourself.”

Mya dropped the ladylike façade for a moment and stuck her tongue out at her sister.

Gendry tried to ignore their squabbling and forced a smile. “Thank you, m'lord.”

When Lord Whitehead, Lord Tudbury and Lord Kellington were brought before him, Gendry was surprised to see they were all feeble old men. They knelt before him and Lord Whitehead could not even bend down by himself, until Ser Davos stepped in to help him.

“My lord,” Lord Tudbury said. His voice was weak and croaking. “We bent our knees to Queen Cersei and Lord Trant not out of disrespect for you, though we know that is no excuse. Lord Whitehead’s only son died fighting for your uncle Renly. Three of Lord Kellington’s nephews and all six of his cousins died for Stannis Baratheon at Winterfell. As for me, my brother was head of our house, but the news of your father King Robert’s death broke his heart and sent him to an early grave. We all simply wanted peace for our houses, to end the bloodshed, so we bent our knees. That was foolish of us, and we humbly ask for your forgiveness. We are all ashamed of ourselves. But if you wish to take our heads now, my lord, we shall die gladly. We have all lived too long, and seen too much…”

The three men remained knelt before him, their heads bowed, and suddenly Lord Whitehead’s shoulders began to shake and he covered his face with his hands. Gendry realized he was weeping.

“Lord Whitehead,” He said. “Why are you crying?”

“Because my lord,” The old man sobbed. “I have betrayed my rightful liege lord. I served beside your father in Robert’s Rebellion, swore to always obey him, and now I’ve abandoned his only son in his time of need. I bent my knee to the woman who took his life, and why? It did not bright my son back. I shall never forgive myself for how I betrayed House Baratheon.”

Perhaps these men had betrayed him, but they were old and feeble. Gendry pitied them. “I will not be killing any of you,” He told them. “And in time I may grant you my forgiveness. All of you shall keep your lands, but you will lose your lordships. From this day each of your houses shall be landed knights. Do any of you have grandsons?”

“Aye, my lord.” Kellington said. “My grandson is thirteen, Lord Whitehead’s is eight, and Lord Tudbury has a six year old great-nephew.”

“In that case, your grandson shall become my new squire. Whitehead’s grandson and Tudbury’s great-nephew shall come into my service as pages. Let this be a guarantee of your loyalty.”

The three former lords thanked him heartily and stood, Whitehead with Ser Davos’s help. “The Trant girl, my lord.” Someone called, and two of Buckler’s men came forth dragging a girl between them.

She was a tiny thing, tinier than Gendry had imagined, with a dark braid and a face full of freckles. Buckler’s men had shackled her hands, and the girl’s eyes were red from weeping. “You put a child in chains?” Gendry asked them.

“Aye, my lord.” One of the men said. “She is a traitor’s whelp – ”

Gendry did not let him finish. “Remove them. Now.”

Begrudgingly the men did as they were told. Once she was free the girl threw herself at Gendry’s feet, sobbing. “I am so sorry my lord.” She wept. “I’m sorry for what my father and brothers did. Please let me go, I won’t do any treasons I promise – ”

“Look at me, girl.” The child lifted up her red, tear-stained face. “What is your name?”

“Elinda Trant, my lord.”

“Elinda,” Gendry repeated. “And how old are you?”

“I’ll be eleven on my next nameday, my lord.”

 _Only ten years old. She’s a child._ “Do not weep, Elinda. I know you had no say in your father’s treasons. Get up.”

The girl shakily got to her feet and wiped the tears from her eyes. Bella pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and gave it to Elinda to dry her tears.

“Perhaps the girl could work in your household as well, m’lord.” Ser Davos said. “She would make a good cupbearer or lady’s maid to your wife after the war.”

Arya would probably laugh when he told her he had gotten her a handmaiden, but Gendry knew that when he told her the whole story of the girl’s plight, she would understand. “That is a good idea, Ser Davos. Elinda, you will stay in my household and serve my wife when she comes to join me. Is that all right?”

The girl nodded. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you, _thank you_.” Lady Marya gestured for the girl to join her and Elinda raced to her side, looking relieved.

But someone cleared their throat. “Pardon me, my lord.” A husky man with long red hair and a beard stepped forward. “But the girl is Manfred Trant’s own seed. We should punish his disobedience. Perhaps if we sent him one of his girl’s fingers, he would come to regret his insolence…” Immediately little Elinda began shaking in Lady Marya’s arms, and the older woman hushed her.

Ser Davos was frowning, Bella’s eyes were wide, and next to him Mya looked like she was barely containing her outrage. Gendry cleared his throat. “And who might you be, Lord – ?”

“Ser Ronnet Connington, the Knight of Griffin’s Roost.”

“Ser Ronnet,” Gendry said. “I understand that I am new to the Stormlands and not entirely affiliated with your ways. While I do not know how you did things before I arrived, I am the Lord of Storm’s End now, and I can tell you that I will never allow an innocent little girl to be mutilated under my command. Is that understood?”

Still, Ser Ronnet objected. “I understand, my lord, but surely we cannot let Lord Trant go unpunished for his treasons. This is war, and terrible things must be done in wars. Perhaps if we could speak alone I could make my position known better – ” Tentatively, others in the room vocalized their assent.

“Lord Trant has betrayed you my lord, surely you do not owe his blood anything – ”

“How do we know that the girl hasn’t been poisoned against you and your house, my lord? She could be dangerous – ”

“Is a traitor’s girl really who you want serving Lady Baratheon, my lord? What if she tries something – ”

Each was more ridiculous than the last, and Gendry was going to call for silence, but then Lord Tarth stepped in. “My lord, if I may.” Lord Selwyn said, before turning to Ser Ronnet. “Ser, forgive me…but why should Lord Baratheon grant an audience to you or any of your cruel ideas given how you ignored Lord Selmy’s letters, asking for you to pledge your men to the Baratheon cause?”

Ser Ronnet froze, and did not say anything for several moments. “My loyalties are with House Baratheon. Perhaps if I had received Lord Selmy’s letters sooner – ”

Lord Selmy cleared his throat. “I sent multiple ravens to Griffin’s Roost over these past few moonturns, ser. But, please, continue.”

Ser Ronnet had nothing to say to that, and Tarth nodded. “Yes, that is what I thought. You see ser, you can say whatever you want about your loyalties, but I know you. Do not think for a second that I have forgotten the way you treated my daughter, who was then your betrothed. The complete lack of respect you displayed to a daughter of a noble house – to _my_ daughter – was frankly shocking, and I can honestly say that I would rather the Tarth line die out with Brienne than ever see my family polluted with the likes of you. I know, ser, that you are no man of honor.”

In response, Ser Ronnet only grimaced, and promptly fled the hall without being dismissed. Gendry let him leave.

“I thank you, Lord Tarth,” He said once the Knight of Griffin’s Roost was gone. “For all the wisdom and loyalty you’ve shown. You as well, Lord Selmy, Lord Dondarrion, Ser Brus.”

The men all bowed their heads. “It is no trouble, my lord.” Lord Selwyn responded. “I simply know integrity when I see it.”

Now, Gendry turned back to the crowd. “Trant’s daughter is under my protection now, and no harm will come to her. If anyone tries to lay a finger on her, then he will lose one of _his_ fingers. Am I making myself clear?” There were nods and mumbles of “yes, my lord” in response. “Good. Now, onto the next – ”

He was interrupted when the doors to the hall opened and a herald appeared. “The Lady Arya Baratheon, originally of House Stark, the Lady of Storm’s End, and Ser Sandor of House – ”

Before he could finish, there was a familiar voice grumbling “I’m no ser” and Gendry rose from his seat as Arya and the Hound stormed into the hall. They were both soaking wet from the rain that was coming down now, their boots covered in mud which they were tracking all over the floor. The lords all bowed their heads to their lady, but Arya ignored them all, and when she saw Gendry she immediately began walking across the room purposefully towards him, the Hound close behind.

“Arya,” Gendry said. “What are you doing – ?”

His wife did not let him finish. “Gendry, it’s not safe. I had to warn you. Cersei, she – she sent a Faceless Man – ”

Gendry remembered the stories she’d told him about the Faceless Men after they first reunited at Winterfell. About how they were men who could change their face as easily as someone else changed their clothes, about how they could assume the look of anyone they needed in order to trick you and kill you. “A Faceless Man? How do you – ”

Before he could finish, there was the distinct sound of a crossbow loading, and Gendry looked up to the gallery. There was Ser Ronnet, a weapon now pointed in his direction.

 _Except it’s not Ser Ronnet._ The realization dawned as Gendry remembered the man’s words. _He wanted a private audience…_

The crossbow fired.

Arya was on him in a second, and instinctively Gendry wrapped his arms around her as they threw themselves under a table. “You idiots, protect your lord!” Someone was shouting – it could’ve been Tarth or Selmy or anyone for all Gendry knew, he was too shocked for the voice to register. Mya and Bella grabbed each other and the Hound threw himself on top of them, shielding them with his body. Lady Marya gathered her sons Stannis and Steffon and the Trant girl into her bosom, while Davos shielded them from the whizzing bolt’s path. He reached out for his son Devan, but Devan broke away from him, running in the opposite direction.

The eldest living Seaworth child threw himself in front of the table where Gendry and Arya were crouched, his body directly between their huddled forms and the rapidly flying projectile. “No – ” Arya started to say and Gendry reached for Devan’s pant leg, wanting to pull him under the table with them, but it was too late.

The bolt went clear through the hollow of his throat, sending him reeling. Somewhere, a woman screamed as blood sprayed from the wound. Davos was the closest to him, frozen in shock and terror, flecks of red now covering his face and clothes.

Devan turned to him, stumbling. “Father,” He gasped. Blood trickled from his mouth and down his chin. “There’s blood on your shirt…”

He collapsed.

Davos reached his arms out to catch him before he could hit the floor. “Devan? Devan, no. Devan please – please don’t leave – ” His voice broke as he dissolved into tears.  

Gendry shut his eyes, feeling like he was in a nightmare. Arya was shaking in his arms and he pulled her closer, her head tucking under his chin as the first sob escaped her throat. Gendry didn’t realize until he felt the wetness on his cheeks that he had begun to cry too.  

There was a moment of silence, and then the room dissolved into chaos.

* * *

**ARYA**

Storm’s End did not have many windows, and those it did have were short and stout, square windows carved out of the stone tower’s walls. The window in the lord’s private solar looked out to the courtyard – there were no windows on the side facing the sea, to protect the castle from storms and strong winds – and Arya stared blankly out. The courtyard was empty due to the rain that was now pouring down, and there was nothing for her to watch but the puddles and mud that were rapidly forming.

Her little handmaiden had brought her some food. Elinda Trant seemed a sweet girl, barely able to look Arya in the eye as she brought the tray, not able to look at the Hound at all. “Do you require anything else of me, my lady?” She’d said in her quiet, girlish voice. “I aim to serve you.” In response, Arya had knelt down before her and cupped her chin. Looking into the girl’s brown eyes, she’d tried to find any resemblance to her late uncle Ser Meryn, the cruel man who Arya had taken out of the world. She could still remember what it felt like to jab her blade into his eyes, to slide it across his throat as he wept for mercy. He’d been an evil man, a liar, a brute and a rapist, but there was no evil in Elinda’s brown doe eyes or her round, freckled face. She was a little thing, scared and alone, and Arya silently swore that she would look out for her. She’d sent Elinda off with a kiss on the forehead, taking one of the sweet nut rolls from the tray and pressing it into her small hand.

Hot Pie had prepared a good meal for her after her journey – fresh baked breads, roasted root vegetables, and a whole chicken – but Arya could not eat a bite of any of it. Her stomach felt hard as a rock. The Hound however was more than happy to eat it for her. He sat the table in the solar, barely looking up as he stuffed his face, a leg of chicken never leaving his hand even as he shoveled some bread into his mouth. Some of the wine sloshed over the edge of the cup as he lifted it to his lips. “You should eat.” He grunted at her.

“Shut up.” Arya snapped back. She stared out the rain-streaked window, watching as a bird landed on top of courtyard wall. _You can fly, stupid thing._ She thought. _Get out of the rain._

The Hound chortled. “Why? Lady Baratheon doesn’t like some half-burnt old man telling her what to do?”

“Don’t call me that.” She knew she was technically Lady Baratheon now, and that didn’t bother her like it might have years ago, but she did not like how the Hound spoke her title with such contempt. He was trying to get a rise out of her, yet she felt too weak to fight with him tonight. She pulled one of the chairs at the table out and sat down, placing her head in her hands. She was tired, but she did not think she could sleep.

After the scene in the great hall, she and Gendry had kissed and parted. She did not know where her husband was now, perhaps with Lord Tarth or Lord Selmy – she had been able to meet Brienne’s father, albeit briefly, none of them feeling up to a longer conversation given the circumstances – or in the dungeons, seeing to the man who had come here to kill him. Perhaps he was overseeing the embalming of Devan Seaworth’s body, but the thought made Arya feel sick.

Her mind went to Davos. She wanted to say something to the old man, to find some words to comfort him, but she knew nothing she did could ease his or Lady Marya’s suffering. Their son was dead. Nothing Arya did could change that, and she felt helpless.

The Hound looked at her, and placed his chicken leg down. “You did all you could, girl.”

Tears pricked her eyes and Arya blinked to stave them off, not wanting to cry again. Maybe if she’d ridden here faster, she could’ve warned Gendry sooner… _I should’ve sent a raven._ She thought. _Why didn’t I send a raven?_ Logically she knew why she hadn’t – because if the raven had arrived when the Trants still held the castle, Cersei Lannister would know they were onto her – but she still could not help but think of all the what ifs.

“Why did you come here?” She asked the Hound. “To eat all of my food?”

He laughed, and took another bite. “If I knew what’s good for me I would’ve stayed. You’re a miserable traveling companion, and a miserable dinner companion too. Didn’t even invite me to your wedding…”

She looked up. “You wanted to come to my wedding?”

The Hound froze, realizing he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “Would’ve been nice to have been asked.” He grumbled.

Arya smiled despite herself and reached across the table to touch his hand. “We’ll have to go back to camp – a battle with Cersei is going to happen, sooner rather than later. But after this war is over…if you need somewhere to go after, you’re welcome here. Gendry will need a captain of the guard.”

The Hound said nothing, and then pulled his hand away. He pushed his chair out from the table, seemingly done eating. “I won’t need anywhere to go after.” He said. “I’ll be dead.”

“You don’t know that – ” Arya started to say, but he cut her off.

“Of course I know that. I’m going to kill my brother, and I’m going to die with him. Revenge is my entire life, girl. There is no after for me. I’ve been to the darkness once, and I will go there again.”

For a moment, she said nothing. “What’s it like?” She finally asked. “To die?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

The Hound paused. “One minute your entire body is on fire with pain. Then...there’s nothing. One minute you’re here, the next you’re not. It’s like going to sleep. You lie there for a while, in anticipation, and then the darkness overwhelms you and you drift off. Just like that.” He shook his head. “Some might call that peaceful. I call it nothing.”

Arya stared at him for a moment. It was almost funny – somewhere over the years, she’d actually become fond of Sandor Clegane. He was harsh, rude, and frequently cruel, but she’d grown fond of him all the same, this man whom she once wanted dead. “Well, if that plan changes, my offer still stands.”

“You’re not going to give this idea up, are you?”

“No,” She said, smiling. “So you might as well agree.”

The Hound rolled his eyes at her, but she swore he smiled too. “Fine. Is there anything else you demand of me, _Lady Baratheon_?”

“Just that you shut up and go get some rest, _ser_.”

“I’m no ser.” He snapped back, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight, girl.”

“Goodnight.”

Once he left her, Arya rose from her seat and forced herself to eat one of the rolls Hot Pie had made. It was sweet and flaky, filled with raisins and nuts, but she could barely taste it. She was still dressed in her dirty riding leathers, having only stripped off her wet top layer and her boots, her hair now frizzy from the rain. She supposed she should call for Elinda. It was strange to think that she had a girl at her beck and call, and Arya didn’t know why all the other high ladies didn’t just undress themselves, but Elinda could bring her warm water for a bath. Yes, that would be nice…

She was standing by the window when she heard the door creak open. “Elinda, sweetling, take these plates away and fetch some water for a bath – ”

It wasn’t Elinda.

“How did you get in here?”

“A man has his ways.”

The sight of Jaqen standing there so nonchalantly in her husband’s solar filled Arya with rage. “Davos’s son is dead.” She spat at him. “He – he was innocent, he didn’t deserve to die – ”

“A pity,” Jaqen acknowledged. “But the Many-Faced God comes for us all. The boy’s death has paid for your husband’s life. A girl can be grateful for that at least.”

“Grateful?” _I didn’t want Devan to die for Gendry._ She thought. _I didn’t want anyone to die at all…no one but Cersei…_ “Ser Ronnet is dead too, I suppose. Your colleague took his face?”

“It was necessary. As a man told you, these were very dangerous kills, and access to Storm’s End was needed.” Jaqen circled the table, picked up a knife from the dinner tray, placed it back down. “A man had to free his colleague from the dungeons. Surely a girl can understand that he was just doing the Many-Faced God’s work.”

“He killed someone – _two_ someones.”

“More than two,” Jaqen corrected. “In a man’s years he has killed hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions. So is the life of those who serve the Many-Faced God. _Valar morghulis_.”

“ _Valar dohaeris_.” Arya said back. She supposed in reality it was not Jaqen or the other Faceless Man who were really to blame. They were assassins: cold, emotionless, desire-less, identity-less. It was Cersei who had ordered this hit. It was Cersei who should die for it. Arya wanted to kill her now more than ever. “You will go back to Braavos then?”

“Indeed.”

“I suppose I’ll never see you again.”

The corners of Jaqen’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Oh no. A girl will see a man again. A girl owes a debt, remember? The boy’s death paid for your husband’s life, but a girl still owes two deaths to the Many-Faced God. Two more must die by a girl’s hand, before the next phase of the moon – if not, a girl’s brother and goodsister will perish. Understood?”

 _Cersei Lannister. The Mountain. Qyburn._ All she had to do was kill two of them, and the debt was paid. She could have her pick. Perhaps she would save the Mountain for the Hound – let them both have their vengeance, her with Cersei, he with his brother. “Understood. Now get out.”

“There is one more thing.” Jaqen said. “Once the Many-Faced God has been given his names, a girl must return the faces she stole from the hall. They are not yours to keep.”

Arya frowned. “Why not? I killed the Waif. You told me I’d completed all my training.”

“Yes, but instead of becoming No One, a girl left to be someone. Now, you are neither. To become No One, you must sacrifice who you once were: your hopes and dreams, your loves and hates. A servant of the Many-Faced God can be no one’s wife and no one’s mother. Until the Many-Faced God is given his names and you return the faces you stole, you can never move on, because one cannot give both the gift of life and death.”

“What does that mean?” Arya asked. _A servant of the Many-Faced God can be no one’s wife and no one’s mother._ Was he saying she was barren then? Arya was surprised by how deeply that hurt her. She’d never given any thought to having children really, not until she and Gendry married – but then again, her mother had once said that if you refused Arya anything, it became her heart’s desire. It was only when the option of having children was taken away from her that she realized how desperately she wanted it: a girl she could teach to water dance, a boy who would like to climb like Bran used to. Those imaginary children never existed, and she felt like she had lost them all the same. “Are you saying that I can’t have children?”  

“Not necessarily. Perhaps someday a girl may be able to bring life into the world, but not until she repays her debt to the Many-Faced God. Until a girl has put that part of her life behind her, she will never be a true wife to her husband, and her womb shall remain barren and empty. A girl can be Arya Stark, or a girl can be No One. A girl must choose.”

Arya knew in her heart that she had made that choice long ago.

This was what she had fought for years for, what she had killed for, what she would’ve gladly laid down her life for. The brother and sister she loved, the goodsister who was carrying her unborn niece and nephew, the man she’d promised to spend the rest of her life with. They were her pack. She’d already lost so much. She wanted her family. She wanted a _life_.

And if this was the debt she needed to pay to make it happen…then she would do it. Give two names to the Many-Faced God, return the faces, all of it.

She looked at Jaqen, her eyes as fierce and wild as those of a she-wolf protecting her pack. “A girl is Arya Stark Baratheon. I’ve never been No One.”

* * *

**SANSA**

She had never seen Harrenhal before.

It was a great, blackened ruin, with five towers of dizzying size. Only the lower thirds of each of the towers were still intact, the rest having fallen into disrepair. Some of the soldiers wanted to explore them, to see what may be lurking up there, but Jon told them not to. Those rooms had not been entered for years, and the floor would probably cave out from under them. Sansa was given a large bedchamber, so large she did not know how one person could use that much space, and the ceilings were near ten feet high. That first night she lay awake staring at the ceiling more than sleeping – she could hear the sounds of bats flying and rats scurrying on the floor above her. Every once in a while a floorboard would creak somewhere. Some of the men whispered that Harrenhal had a ghost, but Sansa did not believe that for a second. There were no such things as ghosts, and there were things in real life that were much more terrifying than any ghouls or spirits.

The letter from Arya arrived on the second day. It was brought to her by her handmaid, folded up on the tray carrying the mint tea and cherry scones she’d been brought to break her fast. Sansa took a bite and unfurled the letter, reading quickly.

_My sister,_

_Storm’s End fell to Gendry after a short battle. About three hundred of our men perished, while Symun Fossoway and Manfred Trant escaped with Trant’s sons and two hundred men. Lord Trant’s daughter Elinda has been pardoned and is now in my service. She’s a good girl, and she reminds me of you. While Gendry and Ser Davos were luckily unharmed, Ser Davos’s son Devan was felled by a Faceless Man’s crossbow. Ser Davos and Lady Marya are understandably devastated. He is to be buried here, and then we will rejoin you at camp with our remaining forces._

_Together we will make Cersei Lannister pay once and for all. Winter is coming for her, with the Baratheon fury and the Targaryen fire and blood alongside it._

_Yours,_

_Arya Stark Baratheon, Lady of Storm’s End, Mistress of Whisperers_

Sansa pushed the rest of her food away uneaten. “Melony, help me dress please. I need to speak with the queen and my brother.” Her handmaiden helped her out of her nightgown and into a black velvet dress, her red hair pulled back into a half-up, half-down style. Once she was presentable, she picked up Arya’s letter, took a few more sips of tea after her maid lectured her about not eating, and then went to find Jon.

The king and queen were in Harrenhal’s study, an old room filled with old tomes that smelled like dust and old parchment. The door creaked as Sansa fluttered in unannounced. Queen Daenerys was standing by the window, her hairdo unfinished, and her attire of her nightgown and a red silk robe indicating that she had left her chambers in a hurry. Jon was seated at the table, and though he had trousers on, on top he was still wearing his nightshirt. Samwell Tarly, the Lord of Highgarden, was there and talking heatedly about something. “I sent her there so she could be _safe_! And now the Lannisters have her, we have to do _something_ – ”

“We will do something.” Tyrion said. He was standing next to Jon’s chair, fully dressed but his clothes rumpled, like he’d donned them in a hurry or wore them all night. Sansa wondered if he was sleeping all right these days. “When we take back King’s Landing, we’ll save them.”

“ _When_ are we going to take back King’s Landing?” Lord Tarly objected. “This is my family we’re talking about. They have my mother, my sister, my son, and my _pregnant_ wife! We have to do something – ”

Daenerys spun around and spotted Sansa standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Lady Stark,” She said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Everyone in the room turned to stare at her. “Should I come back later?” Sansa asked.

Jon waved her off. “No, come sit.” He pulled out the chair next to him and Sansa took it dutifully. “Lord Tarly received a letter from Horn Hill this morning. Lady Tarly, Little Sam, Lady Melessa and Lady Talla are all being escorted to King’s Landing, to pledge allegiance to Cersei Lannister. Sam’s sister Talla is being forced to marry Symun Fossoway, the man who Cersei named Lord of Highgarden. They were told if they did not comply, they would be killed.”

“And they still might be!” Sam interjected. “Gilly is my wife, and I serve you and Daenerys. If Cersei wants to get back at us, harming her is a good way to do it.”

For the first time, Jon noticed the letter clenched in Sansa’s hand. “What have you got there?”

Sansa handed it to him. “It’s from Arya. The good news is that Gendry and Ser Davos were able to take Storm’s End. The bad news is that Lord Fossoway and Lord Trant escaped, and Devan Seaworth killed in the crossfire.” Jon’s face blanched.

“That is horrible news,” The queen said. “When you reply, send our Master of Ships our condolences.”

“I shall.”

“Tell Arya that they should come to Harrenhal at once.” Jon said. “There is no time to waste. We will have to go to King’s Landing as soon as they arrive, with the men we have.”

“Will that be enough?” Sansa asked.

Tyrion sucked in a breath. “Perhaps. We outnumber Cersei, but she has the Golden Company. They are the largest and most powerful sellsword company in all of the Free Cities, with ten thousand men. They have swords, lances, bows, horses, even elephants. They’ve won almost every battle they’ve ever fought.”

The queen was silent for several moments, seemingly deep in thought as she drummed her fingertips against the windowsill. “Lord Tyrion,” She finally said. “The Golden Company are also said to be the most honorable sellsword company, is that not true?”

The Hand nodded. “It is, Your Grace.”

“And the Golden Company was founded by a Targaryen bastard, was it not?”

“Aegor Rivers,” Tyrion agreed. “The son of Aegon IV by his fifth mistress Barba Bracken. They called him Bittersteel. What of it?”

“Do you think you could send a raven to ask the Golden Company to parlay?”

Everyone in the room turned to look at Daenerys. “Are you sure that is a good idea, Your Grace?” Lord Samwell asked. “The Golden Company work for Cersei. What if they try to kill you?”

“Then my dragons will burn them alive,” Daenerys responded immediately. “And everyone will look back on Queen Daenerys Targaryen, who died trying to save the city from bloodshed. Not that it would do me any good. Regardless, I do not think that will happen. The Golden Company consists of many Westerosi exiles. If we promise them that they can return home, offer them lands and titles, then perhaps they will bend their knees. And Ser Jorah, the Lord Commander of our Crownsguard, once served among their numbers before he found himself in my service. Perhaps he may appeal to them.”

Sansa looked at Jon, who reluctantly nodded. “Very well,” Tyrion said. “Last I heard the Golden Company were camped outside King’s Landing’s walls. I’ll send a raven at once.” He turned to leave the room and Sansa pushed her chair out, getting up to follow him.

“Lord Tyrion, a word.”

She closed the study door behind her and Tyrion turned around. “Yes, Lady Stark?”

Sansa hesitated for a moment, not sure of how to broach the subject. “My lord, on the journey here I…well, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about, last we spoke, and I’ve come to a decision.”

Tyrion gulped. “And?”

 _He does not want to get his hopes up._ Sansa could tell. She could see it in his eyes. “I can’t marry Harrold Hardyng. These past few days…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. In truth, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Winterfell. Ever since we reunited there, I’ve been falling for you. I’m certain of it now. I love you too, and I want us to be together.”

“Sansa – ” He started to say, but she cut him off by closing the distance between them and kissing him.

It took a moment for him to kiss back, his mouth moving against hers, and Tyrion’s hands grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, while Sansa grabbed onto him by the collar of his shirt. After a few moments he pulled away, breathless. “Sansa, are you certain – ”

Sansa cut him off with another kiss. “I’m certain. I love you, and you love me. Nothing else matters.”

He smiled and kissed her, quick and chaste. “You love me.” His voice was quiet, awed, and his eyes were shining.

“Yes,” Sansa affirmed. As much as she wanted to stay there and kiss her husband again – gods, that would take some getting used to – she forced herself to stand. “But first, I have to go talk to Ser Harrold. I know you don’t like him, but I still owe him the truth. I want to let him down gently.”

Tyrion nodded, and kissed the back of her hand. “You are very kind, my lady. It’s one of the reasons why I love you.”

“I love you too.” After a few more kisses – she could not help herself – they parted, Sansa returning to her chambers, telling Melony to summon Ser Harrold. She decided to invite him on a horseback ride, so they could get away from the camp and have some privacy, where she could let him down gently.

An hour later, Sansa left Harrenhal and found her palfrey saddled, Ser Harrold already waiting for her on the back of his stallion. “My lady,” He said to her. “A lovely day for a ride, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Sansa answered coolly. One of the grooms helped her onto the back of her horse and they rode off. Ser Harrold trotted along by her side, Sansa’s handmaiden Melony and one of the Winterfell guards riding along several feet behind them. Sansa could hear Melony’s loud laughter ring out – her usually dour maid was head over heels for Ser Donnel.

Sansa quickened her horse’s pace, leaving the others behind them as the towers of Harrenhal faded into the horizon. “Ser Harrold,” She said. “There is a reason I asked you here. There is something I need to talk to you about, something sensitive…”

“Of course my lady.”

 _He’s smiling._ She thought. _He has no idea what’s coming._ She could not help but feel bad for him. “Ser, I thank you for the kind offer you have made me, but I’m afraid I must refuse you. I have decided that I need to honor my marriage with Lord Tyrion, and give our relationship another try.”

Ser Harrold was silent for a moment, and he jerked his horse to a stop. Sansa had to pull sharply on her reins. “My lady,” He said. “If you are choosing to stay in this marriage out of duty, may I advise against it – ”

“You may not.” Sansa said. “This is my decision, Ser Harrold. I love Lord Tyrion. Our marriage may have initially come about through less than ideal circumstances, but he is my choice now.”  _Now and always._ She added silently. There was no other man she could imagine loving. 

The young knight looked down, and nodded his head. “Very well then. I don’t agree with your decision, my lady, but I hope you know that I wish you happiness. I’m a young man – I will bounce back.”

Sansa smirked. “I know you will, ser.” She wondered if her rejection would cause another unsuspecting smallfolk woman to have a Hardyng bastard in her belly soon…

They rode in silence for a few more moments and Sansa heard the sound of hooves approaching them from behind, and she at first assumed it was Melony and Ser Donnel, finally catching up. But then she realized there were more than two horses.

She turned around and let out a yelp of surprise as she and Ser Harrold suddenly found themselves surrounded by four men on horseback.

 _Outlaws_. Sansa realized almost instantly. They were a rough-looking band of thieves, with dirty hair, faces and clothes. “Well, well, well.” The one who seemed to be their leader said. When he smiled, he exposed his yellow teeth. “A red-haired, highborn maid? Could it be, the Lady of Winterfell we’ve heard so much about?”

Ser Harrold drew his sword. “If it’s money you want, we can give you that. Leave the lady alone, or I swear I will cut you all down.”

The men stared at Harry for a second, and then they all laughed. “You will cut us down?” The leader said. He looked at two of his friends. “Kill him.”

“No!” Sansa screamed. “Leave him alone! I’m ordering you, stop this madness at once! I…I have a full guard just behind me!”

But the men did not listen. Two of them pulled her from the saddle while she thrashed wildly and screamed. Sansa reached out and clawed at one of their faces, and she felt blood on her hands as she tore strips of flesh from his cheeks.

“Son of a – ” He cursed. “Tie up the bitch!”

Ser Harrold meanwhile charged at the remaining two, his sword extended. He clashed against one of the outlaws and they came to blows, Ser Harrold slewing him with a stab to the chest. The man’s body fell off his horse, but before Ser Harrold could come to her rescue, the leader of the outlaws attack him from behind. Sansa cried out as the man’s blade went clean through Harry the Heir’s neck, blood foaming at his mouth as the outlaws' leader pulled his sword out, and Ser Harrold collapsed dead in the saddle.

Sansa kicked and fought as one of the men held her arms back, and the one whose face she scratched grabbed her feet. “What a pretty thing ya are.” The one holding her arms said. His breath smelled horrible, like whiskey and onions. Sansa spat in his face. “You’re feisty, aren’t ya? The one the northern savages call the Red Wolf. I like it when my wenches fight back, makes my cock hard. We’re taking ya to the queen.”

“My goodsister is the queen!” Sansa objected. “And my brother is the king! They will want me unharmed!”

“That’s not the queen we’re taking you to.” The outlaws’ leader interjected. There was now blood on his cloak and Sansa’s stomach twisted, knowing it was Harry’s. “Don’t you know what Cersei Lannister would give for you?” He looked at his men. “But the girl is probably right about one thing: she is a valuable hostage, so keep it in your trousers, Pate. The queen will want to decide what to do with her. Now here, hold her still while I tie her up.”

Sansa thrashed. “Unhand me you _filthy_ – ” She managed to kick the man holding her feet in the crotch and he groaned, but then the leader tied restraints around her ankles, then her wrists. The rope burned as it dug into her flesh.

The leader’s ugly face leaned over her. “Sorry, sweetling.” He said. “But I need to shut you up. Close your eyes and enjoy the ride. We’ll be in the capital soon.”

Just before the gag was shoved into her mouth, she screamed his name.

“ _Tyrion!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hound x chicken, the real OTP. 
> 
> So, in case you're interested, here's my plan for the rest of this story and beyond: 
> 
> This story has five more chapters - maybe an epilogue too. I was going to have maybe a few character deaths before the end, but now I'm not sure. After how the show went, I might just embrace the happy ending and give these characters a break. And after this story is over, I would really like to write some more one-shots set in this universe, if you guys would be interested in reading those. I have an idea for one that includes all four main couples, and then I'd like to give each main couple their own one-shot as well. Even though season eight was so disappointing, I love writing this fic, and I love these characters, so I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. Writing this has really helped me come to terms with the show's ending. 
> 
> Next chapter: Davos IV, Yara II, Daenerys IV, Jon V.


	12. The Golden Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos blames himself; Yara rallies her people; Daenerys tries to turn the Golden Company; Jon finds out what's happened to his sister.

**DAVOS**

He stayed there long after the body had gone cold.

Someone had closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. His skin was pale and sagging, almost translucent, and all of the muscles in his body were tense, permanently frozen. Silent Sisters had come to clean the body and one of them had washed the blood from him, a cloth wrapped around his punctured throat. Davos untied it, his finger reaching to touch the hole in Devan’s neck, where the crossbow had gone straight through. It still did not feel real. He looked at that pale, frozen face, trying to imagine Devan’s brown eyes in that face, to imagine it adorned with one of his rare smiles. _This isn’t Devan._ Davos thought. _This isn’t my son…_

He’d lost four boys before. Matthos even died before his eyes, just as Devan had – but he hadn’t seen any of their bodies. There probably were no bodies, in truth, after the wildfire explosions that ended his boys’ lives at the Blackwater. Any remains that might’ve survived the blast surely sank to the bottom of the bay, the fish devouring their flesh, their ashes scattered on the sea breeze…

He’d lost four boys and yet he’d never buried a son before.

Davos would’ve laughed, had he been able. The universe was cruel. He wanted to rage, to curse, to cry, to demand to know why it hadn’t been him instead, but Davos did not know if he had the strength to do anything. He felt empty.

He reached out and touched Devan’s dark hair, plastered against his clammy face. “Oh, my boy.” Davos whispered. He did not know why he was speaking – Devan could not hear him, and he was not sure if he believed in any afterlife – but the words came pouring out of him all the same. “I remember the day you were born. As clearly as if it were yesterday. After your four brothers, I thought you would be a girl, but your mother was certain that you were a boy. She’d had your name picked out since her third moonturn – she’s always been smarter than I am, your mother. You were so small…” A lump was rising in his throat, but he pressed on. “You were so small, but you were strong. The first time I held you, you looked up at me, and you wrapped your tiny hand around my finger, and just like that I knew I was in love. I know fathers aren’t supposed to have favorites, and I wouldn’t say I did but…but I was always so proud of you, Devan. From the very first moment. You were always such a good boy, until the very last…” He lifted Devan’s limp hand to his lips and kissed it. “I _am_ so proud of you.”

He was still staring at Devan’s dead face, trying to find any trace of that strong, smart, good boy he’d raised, something, _anything_ , when he heard the door open and a man’s boots tread lightly across the floor. Due to the high-vaulted ceilings in this particular chamber at Storm’s End, each footfall against the stone echoed, even though he was practically tiptoeing.

“Ser Davos.” Gendry Baratheon’s hushed voice broke through his contemplation. “It’s almost time.”  

Still, Davos did not move. Even as he heard Gendry walk up behind him he did not turn, because he feared that when he looked away from Devan’s face, he would never see it again. He had been cooped up in here for hours, and the Silent Sisters needed to take the body away before it began to rot, but still Davos did not move.

From the corner of his eye he could see Gendry lift his hand, moving to touch his shoulder, but then he dropped it and pulled back. How were you supposed to comfort someone whose son had just died? _You can’t._ Davos thought.

“I know it’s difficult.” Gendry finally said. “I know he was your son.”

Tears pricked Davos’s eyes. “Is,” He corrected. “He is my son.”

Gendry glanced down at the body laid out on the table, and nodded. “Aye.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Davos placed a trembling hand over Devan’s chest. Even through the black doublet the Sisters had dressed him in, Davos could still feel the coolness emanating from his skin. “I’d say that I pray that should you ever be blessed with children, you will never know the pain of having them taken from you.” He said to Gendry. “Though I do not pray.” _How can there be gods in a world where the innocent can be taken away so cruelly?_ What kind of merciful creator would make the best people in this world suffer, while evil people could continue to breathe another day?

Dale. Allard. Matthos. Maric. Devan. Shireen. They were all gone. Now they were nothing but Davos’s ghosts. He wanted to weep but he did not know if he had any tears left.

A lump rose in Lord Baratheon’s throat, and he swallowed it. “I’m so sorry. It should’ve been me – ”

Even in his grief, Davos did not allow Gendry to finish that sentence. He finally forced himself to tear his eyes away from Devan to look at his lord. “Don’t say that.” Because as much as he mourned for his son, he would not allow the young man to carry around that burden. This was not his fault. “I am glad you are alive, lad. I only wish that Devan…” His voice broke. “That Devan were still here too.”

He only noticed the rolled up scroll in Gendry’s hand when the Lord of Storm’s End tentatively lifted it. “With your permission,” He said. “I’d like to have Devan’s body transported to Cape Wrath, to rest at the site of your new keep. I’ve had the plans drawn up for a few weeks now –  I wanted to show them to you under better circumstances, but…” Gendry trailed off, glancing at Devan’s body, and awkwardly placed the scroll in Davos’s hand. “Here.”

Davos unfurled the parchment and a reluctant smile came to his face as he took in the sloppy, childish handwriting that could only belong to Gendry. The letters were lopsided and uneven, but he could not help but smile through his watery eyes when he saw how vastly his pupil had improved. _Shireen would be proud._ There was a rudimentary sketch of a castle, with a round bailey and a single tower. “You did all this?”

“Not all of it – Arya helped. She knows more about castles than me. She used to want to build them when she was little.”  

“Well, she is the blood of Bran the Builder, that one.” He looked at the words Gendry had written across the top of the page – one of them was misspelled, crossed out and then corrected, the other barely legible, but Davos thought he understood what he was trying to say. “Treasure Trove? An appropriate name for the keep of an upjumped smuggler…”

Tentatively, Gendry smiled. “You took an onion for your banners. Let people say what they want, and we’ll throw it back in their faces.”

“Well, I always have had a dry sense of humor…” He glanced up at Gendry. “The Onion Knight and the Smith Lord. Who would’ve thought?”

They stood there in silence for several moments longer, until the door opened again. Davos thought perhaps it was one of the lords or the maester to drag them out of the room, or perhaps even an impatient Silent Sister, but when a woman cleared her throat both he and Gendry turned around at the noise.

“Pardon me, m’lord,” Marya could not meet his eyes as she spoke. “But might I have a moment alone with my husband, if it please you?” _And my son._ She did not have to say it – Davos knew they were both thinking it.

Gendry did not hesitate to nod. “Of course, m’lady. Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences once more.”

“I thank you, m’lord. You have been the most kind.”

Davos handed him the scroll back and Gendry gave him an awkward attempt at a comforting squeeze of the shoulder, before fleeing the room. Now he and Marya were left alone with their son’s body.

Tears rushed to Davos’s eyes as he looked at his wife. “Oh Marya,” He breathed. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry…” And, finally, Davos allowed himself to cry.

His wife crossed the room in a moment and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into her embrace. While Devan’s skin was cold to the touch, she was warm, filled with life. “Hush now.” Marya said to him. “This is not your fault, Davos. So no more apologies, I will not hear it…”

He pulled back to look at her once his tears were under control, and Marya’s hands moved to rest over each of his cheeks. “Five sons.” Davos said. “Five sons we have lost, Marya – and they all died following me. Their blood is on my hands. I am so sorry, Marya, if you were never to forgive me I would not – ”

“ _Davos_.” Marya repeated. Her own eyes were still faintly red, her chin quivering with emotion, but she was unmoving, a pillar of strength. “Stop talking, you old fool. This is not your fault, do you hear me? I do not blame you for any of it. Devan was a grown man, as were his brothers before him. We raised him to be brave, to never balk in the face of fear, and if you must blame yourself for that then blame me too, because I was as responsible for raising him as you.”

Davos shook his head. “I could never blame you. You are…a _wonderful_ mother, Marya. The greatest there ever was.”

“Then do not blame yourself either, Davos. You are a good man. I would not have had seven sons with you, if I was not comfortable with the fact that they may turn out like you. In fact, I hoped they would…” She trailed off, a steely look in her eyes. “There is only one person I blame, and that is Cersei Lannister. She sent this assassin after Lord Baratheon. I swear Davos, if I ever lay my eyes on that woman, I shall wrap my hands about her throat myself – ”

Davos shushed her, and pulled her into his arms. “Do not speak like that, my love. She will pay for what she has done. The king and queen are going to take the city back. But you…” He sighed, and kissed the top of her head. “You must take Stannis and Steffon, and go with Devan’s body back to Cape Wrath. You will be safe there.”

Marya pulled back to look up at him. “I won’t go.” She said determinedly. “Not without you – ”

“But you must. Stannis and Steffon are boys yet, they will need you with them, to protect them – and they need their father to fight for them, to make sure they have a future. Cersei Lannister’s world is the one their brothers died in. Jon and Daenerys Targaryen’s world is one they can live in.” Davos may not have been born a high lord, but he had been around them long enough to know it was innocents who suffered the most in the game of thrones. _Never again._ He silently promised himself.

Reluctantly, Marya nodded. “All right. For Stannis and Steffon, I will go. But promise me you will come back to me, Davos Seaworth.”

Trembling, Davos lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against it. “I always do, don’t I?”

* * *

**YARA**

“Is this what the Iron Islands look like, Aunt Yara?”

At her nephew’s words, Yara glanced around, admiring the docks and wharves of Saltpans. The Riverlands town was no more than a village, in truth – the seat of House Cox, their simple, single-towered keep was the center of the town. It reminded her of the Iron Islands in the fact that the air smelled like fish and the salt of the sea, but Saltpans was small, with some shops along the harbor, a few places of worship, and several inns with pastel colored exteriors. Though there was one merchant vessel docked – called the _Emerald Elephant_ , it was dropping off shipments of Dornish strongwine, Lysene citrus fruits, and glassware and carpets from Myr – Saltpans was no great trading port. Though it was more colorful than the Iron Islands, it was smaller, quieter. Yara looked at Asher and shook her head, drawing her hands apart. “Bigger.” She mouthed.

Asher’s eyes went wide. “Will it be like Oldtown?” He asked excitedly. “There were so many merchants and traders there, and markets with so many fruits I couldn’t name them all. The Hightower was the prettiest building I’d ever seen! At night I used to watch the light from the lighthouse sweep the harbor. My mother used to say it was a castle fit for a king.”

Theon turned away from staring off the edge of their ship to lift his son into his arms, causing Asher to chuckle as he was lifted high into the air. “Pyke is not very much like Oldtown, no. The Iron Islands are small and rocky, and we do not have many people there. It’s hard for foreign ships to dock in the rough waters – it takes a true Ironborn to navigate those seas.”

Asher lit up. “I’m a true Ironborn, aren’t I? I could do it!”

Yara smiled at him, brushing some of Asher’s wild, dark hair out of his face. Regardless of where he had been born, her nephew was a Greyjoy. He was the blood of the kraken, and she would see to it that everyone knew it.

“Of course you are.” Theon answered. “You are my son, and nephew to the first Queen of the Iron Islands, remember? Perhaps Pyke is not as bustling as Oldtown, but it’s your home. It’s in your blood. And if you ever get bored, that’s what we have ships for. When you rule the seas, you can go anywhere you heart desires.”

“Someday I will be a great sailor!” Asher said confidently. “I’ll go to faraway lands and bring back long lost treasures, in the name of my aunt the queen!”

“Of that I have no doubt. Perhaps someday you will rule the Iron Islands after your aunt.” Theon said to Asher, and Yara smiled. She wanted nothing more. “You could be king, and sit the Salt Throne, and all throughout the isles men will want to be you and women will want to be with you.”

At this Asher’s smile turned into a frown, and he wriggled out of Theon’s grip to stand on his own two feet again. “I don’t want women throughout all the Iron Islands.” He said. “I just want one girl…”

Yara frowned. She’d hoped her nephew’s childish crush on Loreza Sand would not last once they left Sunspear, but it seemed Asher had not stopped thinking about the pretty bastard girl who had tossed him an orange and whispered sweet words into his ear. _He will grow out of it._ She told herself. Yara could not even count how many times Theon had fancied himself in love when he was Asher’s age, and he’d always found a new plaything sooner or later. She took Asher’s hand and led him below deck for supper.

They sat together at the table in Yara’s cabin, their dinner consisting of ale and fish – the bay was called the Bay of Crabs for a reason, and they had very good shellfish here. Yara let Asher have a cup of watered down ale. “It’s good,” The boy said. “But not as good as the wine I had in Dorne…”

From across the table, Theon and Yara exchanged a look. “Asher,” Theon said to his son. “Did I ever tell you about all the places your aunt has sailed?” Asher shook his head no, looking excited for Theon to continue. “She’s been all over Westeros. When she was only eight-and-ten, she went on a trading voyage to Fair Isle, Lannisport and the Arbor – the Arbor has very good wine and peaches. Perhaps she’ll take you there someday when you’re old enough. And there was the time when she and her crew fought off a band of Lyseni pirates in the Stepstones – ”

Asher looked at her. “Were they really pirates, Aunt Yara?”

Yara nodded. There was also the sailor from Lys she’d encountered when she was but six-and-ten – he’d given her heaps of tapestries, perfumes, silks, and some freshly forged dirks to bring home, and she’d given him her maidenhead. But she did not think that was an appropriate story for a child.

Asher’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Someday I’ll have a ship, and I’ll go to all those places too! I’ll go to the Bay of Dragons, and Sothroyos, and Yi Ti. And I’ll go to Dorne to visit Loreza, and I’ll bring her jewels and silks as presents! Do you think she’d like that?”

Yara took another long gulp of ale at her nephew’s words, while Theon only smirked. “And what will you call your ship?”

Asher thought for a moment, and then his face broke out in a grin. “The _Queen Yara_! For my aunt, the best sailor in all the Iron Islands!”

Yara smiled at him in return, but she silently thought to herself that he was much more likely to call it the _Princess Loreza_.

They ate in silence for several moments, until one of Yara’s sailors came below deck. “Your Grace,” The man said. “There are battleships approaching. Come quickly.”

Yara and Theon both immediately bolted upright. “Stay here.” Theon said to his son, but as they both ascended to the deck, Yara turned to see Asher running after them on his shorter legs. _He truly is a Greyjoy…_

Yara looked out from the bow of the _Black Wind_ and exhaled when she saw the sails on the approaching fleet. Their orange sails boasted a gold spear piercing a red sun. _The Sand Snakes_. She and Theon descended from the ship to greet them, Asher chasing after.

They stood on the shallow beach as the greatest of the Martell ships docked, a pristine-looking longship called the _Red Viper_. Yara watched as a beautiful, tanned woman with long dark hair in an off-the-shoulder orange dress descended from the ship, glimmering like the sun.

“Princess Elia,” Theon greeted her. “We were not expecting you.”

The Princess of Dorne came to stand before them. Her sister Obella was closely behind her, accompanied by a man about Arya Stark’s age in a purple tunic, with blonde hair almost as pale as Queen Daenerys’s. Bounding along behind her was a young girl in a dress of floral silk, and Asher grinned at the sight of the object of his infatuation. “We were.” Princess Elia said. “But my sister Loreza was begging to see our friends from the Iron Islands again.”

Little Loreza turned to Asher, beaming. “How are you, Asher?”

Her usually bold nephew opened his mouth, stumbling over his words. “Go – good. You…you look really pretty, Loreza. I mean, it’s nice to see you.” Obella and the man with her both smiled and laughed, while Loreza blushed.

“Loree,” Elia said. “Why don’t you and Prince Asher go run off and play? Perhaps put your feet in the water, it should not be too cold.” Asher did not need to be asked twice, allowing Loreza to grab his hand and drag him off towards the bay.

“They are very sweet together.” Obella said, taking the blonde man’s arm. “Don’t you remember the first girl you fancied, Ned?”

“Indeed.” He agreed. “There is nothing as pure as first love. Though that cannot last forever, I fear…”

“Sometimes it does.” Elia Sand said, smiling. She looked back at Yara and Theon. “You remember my sister, the Princess Obella. Allow me to introduce her betrothed, Edric Dayne, the Lord of Starfall and Sword of the Morning.”

Dayne nodded. “Pleasure.”

Yara raised a single eyebrow at Elia. She thought of the handsome but daft Dickon Manwoody, the lover Elia had at Sunspear – if Obella brought her betrothed, why did Elia not bring hers?

The princess seemed to know what Yara was thinking. “As for our other sister Dorea, she was left in charge of Sunspear. My betrothed Lord Dickon was left behind to watch over her. Though knowing what I know of Dorea and Dickon, bless them, I fear it is _she_ who will have to take care of _him_. Dickon needs the supervision of someone with a little more sense.”

Theon chuckled. “And a fourteen-year-old girl has more sense than he?”

“This particular fourteen-year-old girl? Yes.” Elia laughed. “I do love Dickon, do not get me wrong. But part of the reason why I love him is because I know he will never stand in my way.” Yara could not help but smile at that.

“Prince Theon,” Obella Sand said. “Allow Lord Dayne and I to show you around our new warships. We named the _Red Viper_ for my late father.”

“If she is as fierce as Prince Oberyn was,” Theon said. “I have no doubt she shall bring us success in battle. Lead the way.” He followed Obella and Lord Dayne onto the ship, the couple clutching each other’s hands as they did so. Now Yara and Princess Elia were alone together on the shore, Asher and Loreza wading into the bay several feet away.

For a few moments Yara watched as Loreza Sand led Asher to the water’s edge, holding up the skirt of her dress with one hand and holding onto him with the other. The tide rolled in and soaked their feet, Asher clutching Loreza’s hand desperately. She looked down at him and smiled, the sunlight falling just so on her dark hair. _Perhaps his infatuation is not so hopeless after all._ Yara thought to herself. It was still just childhood puppy love of course, but though Yara had dreamt of her nephew someday becoming king with an Ironborn wife, she thought to herself that perhaps the youngest member of House Martell might have the noble strength befitting a queen.

She looked back at the feeling of Princess Elia’s hand coming to rest gently on her upper arm. “Your Grace, I would love to see your ship. I love the waters – I have the soul of an explorer, you know. In another life I think I may have become a vagabond, traveling all over the known world and collecting treasures, finding lovers in every port. Perhaps you could take me back to your cabin for a glass of wine?”

Yara gave her a look. _You hate wine that isn’t from Dorne._ She traced on Elia’s palm.

Elia smiled in response. “In truth, I have a taste for something better than wine.” She grabbed Yara’s hand. “Come – let us talk, one ruling lady to another.”

Once they were inside the privacy of Yara’s cabin, Elia immediately made herself at home, sprawling out on Yara’s bed. She rested on her elbows, her legs crossed at the ankles, her dark hair cascading down one shoulder. Yara could not deny it: that woman knew how to make herself irresistible.

“You Iron Islanders are so very dreary.” Elia mused as Yara poured them each a cup of a dry white wine imported from Lys. “Grey blankets, black clothes, brown walls…and all your sigils! Krakens and fish and scythes and skulls. Where is the light, the joy?”  

Yara smirked and pressed a metal cup full of wine into one of Elia’s hands, while she grabbed the other. _Dreary or not,_ She wrote. _Your sun and spear could not stand a chance against my kraken._ In response, Elia laughed, light and airy.

“We’ll see about that, Your Grace.” She lifted herself into a sitting position and looked up at Yara, eyes twinkling. “If you ever get bored of your cold isle, you can come visit me anytime. Bathe in the Dornish sun, drink some fine wine, perhaps…have a sleepover. Dickon won’t mind. He does whatever I tell him to do, so you’re more than welcome. At least until you find some boring husband who tries to take you away from me.”  

Yara shook her head. Marriage was not for her. Elia Sand seemed content enough with her arrangement with Dickon, but even if Yara did find some man who would let her mind her own affairs, she was still not interested. She’d never wanted a husband or children and that was a decision she had never wavered from. Even if they lived in a world where a marriage with a beautiful woman like Elia Sand was an option, Yara still did not know if she would take it. She did not think she was made for commitment.

Elia Sand smiled that enchanting smile of hers. “As for tonight,” She drawled, standing up and leaning in closer. “I think I want to visit the Iron Islands…” She captured Yara’s lips with her own, but this kiss was different from the goodbye peck they’d shared at Sunspear. This was a long, deep kiss, and Elia’s tongue slipped into her mouth. _Well,_ Yara thought dryly. _I suppose she is serious about wanting to go exploring…_

Elia Sand’s slender hands tugged on the strings of Yara’s brown leather jerkin, pulling it off, and Yara jerked back. No one had touched her like this in quite a long time. Elia opened one dark eye. “What is it?” She asked. Yara wondered if she should make some sort of joke about this being the first time she’d had a tongue in her mouth since Euron cut hers off, but she did not move for Elia’s hand.

Elia smiled and stepped backwards, slipping off her dress. “Don’t worry, Your Grace.” She said. “I’m not going to proclaim my undying love for you, or offer to have your babies. I simply thought perhaps you might like to spend one night in Dorne…” Her dress fell to the floor in a puddle of orange silk. She was wearing nothing underneath.

For a long moment Yara simply stood there staring at every inch of the princess’s perfect flesh, from her small, naked breasts to the tuft of dark hair between her thighs, from her tanned, toned legs to the golden sun bracelet around her ankle. _Oh._ She finally thought. _Fuck it._ She picked up her cup and drained the rest of her wine in one long gulp, then crossed the room to grab Elia’s face and pull her in for another long kiss. They kissed until their lips were swollen, until they’d exerted themselves so much that they could scarcely breathe.

Elia pulled back to look at her with a shit-eating grin. “Is that a yes?” She asked teasingly. In reply, Yara pulled her in for another kiss, her rough, calloused hands enveloping Elia’s small breasts, the nipples pebbling under her thumbs. Elia moaned into her mouth but Yara surprised her by shoving her naked body down onto the mattress, before removing her trousers and climbing on top of her.

Elia Sand was not the only woman here who went after what she wanted, after all.

* * *

**DAENERYS**

“Go ahead – you can touch him.”

Emma’s hand was trembling as she reached out to tentatively pet Drogon’s snout. The dragon puffed, causing Emma to jump, but then he pushed against her touch and closed his eyes, rubbing against her hand like a kitten. “Ni…nice dragon.” Emma mumbled. “You’re a nice dragon, aren’t you?”

Daenerys bit back her laughter, while behind her Missandei, Jhiqui and Ornela all giggled good-naturedly. “There is no need to fear.” Daenerys assured her little handmaiden. “Drogon is my mount, and Rhaegal is my husband’s. The relationship between a Targaryen and their dragon runs deep – who I like, Drogon likes. My desires are his desires. Neither of them will hurt you.” While Emma now began to stroke Drogon’s nose, Rhaegal rubbed his face against Daenerys’s shoulder and she smiled, patting him on the head. Though Rhaegal was bonded with Jon, he had still been Daenerys’s son first, and she still loved him.

“The first time I saw a dragon,” Ornela said with a laugh. “I feared I may faint.”

“I never thought I’d see one.” Emma said, her eyes still wide in wonder as she pet Drogon. “They’re magical.”

“No one thought they ever would.” Daenerys responded, a smile on her face. “Would you like to feed them, Emma?”

The young girl stepped back and shook her head. “With all due respect Your Grace…I do not think I am quite there yet.” The other handmaidens smiled and laughed.

“It takes some getting used to, surely.” Missandei agreed, retrieving the basket of some freshly slaughtered rabbits and chickens for the dragons’ lunch. She whispered to them in High Valyrian and threw the first rabbit in the air, causing Emma to jump back in fright as Rhaegal snapped forward to catch the animal carcass in his jowls, devouring it in two bites.

“Do they eat people?” Emma asked warily.

Daenerys shook her head. “No, my sweet. And they will not hurt you either – the dragons only hurt the people I want them to, bad people.” She tried not to think of the little girl in Meereen, whose burnt corpse had been laid out before her. She would not allow something like that to happen again.

“Bad people?” Emma repeated. “So like…rapists? Murderers? Slavers?”

“Exactly.” Missandei said. “Queen Daenerys saves us all from monsters.” She wrapped an arm around Emma. “While the dragons finish eating, why don’t we see if our own lunch is ready?”

“Ooh, might we have some of those apple tarts again today? They were the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Missandei smiled. “We’ll see if they have any left. Come.” Missandei passed the basket off to Jhiqui, then returned to the tent with Emma and Ornela.

Daenerys and her Dothraki handmaiden continued to feed the dragons in silence for several moments. Each time they tossed some meat, Rhaegal would eagerly snatch it up and devour it, but Drogon looked completely disinterested. The dragon laid down and rested his head on the ground, shutting his eyes like he was going to sleep. It was not like Drogon to show so little interest at mealtimes. “Jhiqui,” Daenerys asked her handmaiden. “Did Drogon eat this morning when you brought the dragons breakfast?”

Jhiqui shook her head, tossing the last of the meat the dragons’ way. Once again Rhaegal ate greedily, while Drogon snorted as he tried to nap. “A little, _khaleesi_ , but he did not seem interested. I thought perhaps he had gone hunting on his own.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “Perhaps…” But she could not shake the feeling that there was something deeper going on with Drogon. He was her mount, and their connection ran deep. She reached out to touch Drogon but he shook her off, turning his head away. The bond between a Targaryen and their dragon was a spiritual one, something that you had to experience to truly understand – Daenerys could feel in her soul that something was bothering Drogon, but she did not know what it was.

She did not have more time to ponder it, however, as she heard Jon shout her name. “Daenerys!” She and Jhiqui turned around to see Jon and Ser Jorah approaching them – Jon in his crown, Ser Jorah in his white cloak of the Crownsguard. That was odd – Jon never wore his crown unless forced. “Lord Tyrion has received a response from the Golden Company. They are willing to meet us in a field about five miles from here, but we will have to move quickly.”

Daenerys nodded. That explained why Jon was wearing the crown – it was a statement, a political maneuver, and she silently praised her husband for his smart thinking. “Jhiqui, fetch me my crown and my cloak – the silver one will go best with this dress, I think. Please tell the others that I’m sorry I will not be able to lunch with you all today, but I will be back soon. Also, make sure that Emma does not eat too many apple tarts and upset her stomach.”

“Yes, _khaleesi_.”  

“Thank you, _qoy qoyi_.” Daenerys kissed Jhiqui on both cheeks and then sent her off.

“What was it that you said to her?” Jon asked, his brow wrinkled. “At the end?”

“ _Qoy qoyi_.” Daenerys repeated, and she smirked at his confused look. “It is a typical form of Dothraki address, for a khal’s bloodriders, those who have vowed to protect you, those you hold dearest. It means ‘blood of my blood’. It’s meant to signify that the two of you are one, to live and die together.”  

“Ahh. Then I suppose you are my…” Jon trailed off. “ _Quay quay-ee_?”

Daenerys giggled, and pressed a light kiss to his lips, while Ser Jorah – as a fluent Dothraki speaker – also barely suppressed a smile. “Your pronunciation could use some work, but I appreciate your sentiment. Blood of my blood.”

Jon smiled back at her. “Blood of my blood.” He repeated, before pulling her in for another kiss.

“Come now,” Daenerys said, taking his hand. “We’ll ride horses out to meet the Golden Company, but I want Drogon and Rhaegal to fly along behind. This is to be a peaceful meeting – but I want them to know we have them.”

Ser Jorah smirked. “Any mortal man trembles when he sees a dragon for the first time.”

“Yes,” Daenerys agreed. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”  

They rode out to meet the Golden Company, Daenerys and Jon at the helm, both now wearing their crowns. Had Daenerys known she was going to have this meeting today, she would’ve dressed herself in black and red, the colors of a true Targaryen. Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion rode along behind them, followed by Daenerys’s bloodriders, while Drogon and Rhaegal flew along overhead. Daenerys wanted to appear gracious and accommodating, but she also wanted to make it clear what she had at her disposal, and that she was not afraid to use it.

The Golden Company were already waiting for them in the field where they were scheduled to meet. There were at least a hundred commanders and generals, all of them clothed in rich golden tunics over their suits of armor. While Daenerys and Jon were relatively unadorned save for the crowns on their heads, the soldiers of the Golden Company had no qualms about showcasing their wealth, whether it be through their jewelled swords, their gilded armor, or the heavy chains of rubies, emeralds or sapphires they wore about their necks. One even wore a helmet that looked to be encrusted with diamonds. The man at the front of the pack – who had to be their leader – was not as ostentatious as the others, but Daenerys recognized that his tunic was made of cloth-of-gold, a very costly fabric, and his armor was decorated with a small, gilded skulls and crossbones. Out of all of it, what impressed Daenerys the most was the elephant. It was a great, hulking creature, with a saddle of cloth-of-gold draped on its back and a dangling headpiece made out of gold and jewels on its large head. _And this is only one of them,_ Daenerys thought. _They have more._

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen,” Ser Jorah proclaimed. “First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. As well as her husband, Jon Warborn of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of His Name, the Resurrected, King of the Andals, the Rhonyar, and the First Men, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Friend of the Free Folk, Protector of the Realm, Lord Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Slayer of the Undead, and the White Wolf.”

“It is a pleasure.” The commander said. “Unfortunately I do not have anyone to introduce me, nor do I have any fancy titles – but I trust you remember who I am, don’t you Jorah, old friend?”

“I do indeed – did not know they were letting you run the thing, now. How did you manage that?”

“Dumb luck, I suppose.”

Jorah looked at Daenerys. “This is Harry Strickland, Your Grace. I knew him when I once served in the Golden Company.”

Daenerys nodded at Strickland. “It is a pleasure to meet you, ser.”

Strickland laughed hollowly. “I am no ser. In fact there are probably some in these parts who would like to have my head on a spike, but that is no matter.”

“Strickland,” Jon repeated. “That is a Westerosi name, is not?”

“It is indeed. My ancestors once ruled as lords in this country, until they chose the wrong side of a rebellion and were driven across the Narrow Sea. Now we’ve been gold for four generations.” He spoke this as if being driven from your homeland in disgrace and joining a sellsword company was something to be proud of.

Tyrion leaned over. “The Stricklands were a noble house from the Crownlands who sided with Daemon I Blackfyre in the First Blackfyre Rebellion.” He whispered to her. “After the defeat of the rebels at the Battle of Redgrass Field, the Stricklands were stripped of their lordship and they fled to Essos with Aegor Rivers, the founder of the Golden Company.”

Daenerys nodded at him, then sat up straighter in her saddle and cleared her throat. “The past is the past.” She proclaimed in her clearest, most queenly voice. “You all have paid a hefty price for the actions of your ancestors, and when my husband and I sit on our rightful thrones, we shall welcome all of you back to the Seven Kingdoms with open arms. All we ask is that you fight with us, the rightful monarchs, in this battle to come. Cersei Lannister may have promised you money, but King Jon and I can promise you everything you’ve ever wanted: lands, titles, riches, and honors. Your families’ rightful titles will be restored, you shall be able to return to your ancestral keeps, and you shall be welcomed home as true Westerosi heroes. Join us now, and it shall all be yours.”

There was a long moment of silence. Most members of the Golden Company did not react to her words, did not even flinch – it was like Daenerys had not spoken at all. Then, tentatively, one young, pimply-faced man on a brown horse rode out of formation. He spurred his horse forward, trying to cross the field towards Daenerys and Jon’s side, and Dany smiled. Then, Harry Strickland barked a command. Before Daenerys could even process, another one of the mercenaries drew a bow and fired. The arrow whizzed through the air and stuck through the young defector’s throat, sending him falling out of the saddle, dead before he hit the ground. Daenerys could not help but gasp and next to her Lord Tyrion winced, while Ser Jorah looked away.

The archer nonchalantly put his bow back, while Strickland smirked. “Any other man who tries to defect will meet the same fate, is that understood?” He told his men, some of whom shuffled in their saddles and looked away, while others remained stone cold.

“We meant what we said.” Jon told him. “Cersei Lannister is an evil queen with no right to the Seven Kingdoms. Join us, and together we’ll win – you will be able to return home, my lord. Anything your heart desires, it is yours.”

“I have all my heart desires.” Strickland replied immediately. “I have enough wealth to last a lifetime. I have my brothers here fighting alongside me. And most of all, I have my honor. Do you know what they say about the Golden Company? Our word is as good as gold. I will not sell my word for anything on this earth, no money, lands or titles. It is not a matter of what I want. It is a matter of what honor demands.”

Jon glanced down. Daenerys knew he could not argue with that. He, too, prided himself on being a man of his word.

“Strickland,” Ser Jorah said. “Please. I know you – you’re not a bad person. We were friends once, remember?”

“We were more than friends.” Strickland said. “We were brothers-in-arms. There was a time when I wanted to be just like you, Mormont. Then you left all your brothers behind. I used to think that you were an honorable man – now I see you have no loyalty at all.”

Though he tried to hide it, Daenerys could see from the look in Jorah’s eyes how deeply these words wounded him. He always strived to be a loyal man, and Daenerys could not help but reach over to clasp his hand. She hoped he knew his past was forgiven and she considered him a true and loyal friend now.

“There must be something we can offer you.” Tyrion said. “The Golden Company was founded by a man of Targaryen blood. You say that your company is a brotherhood, and that means Aegor Rivers was your brother – shouldn’t honor compel you to fight for your brother’s kin?”

“And Aegor Rivers’s kin cast him out. Bittersteel created the Golden Company to be respectable, to be revered. There is nothing you can offer us to make us change our position in this war.”

“So why even agree to meet with us then?”

Harry Strickland shrugged. “I was bored.” He kicked his horse and turned to head back. “Good day to you, Your Graces, good sers. I wish you the best of luck in the wars to come.”

They rode back to their own camp in silence, Jorah alongside Daenerys, Tyrion alongside Jon. “It is not a lost cause.” The Hand was saying. “We still have plenty of men to defeat Cersei – ”

“But it will be more difficult if the Golden Company stays with her.” Daenerys interrupted. “I do not like to be made a fool of, Lord Tyrion.”

“No one thinks you a fool, Your Grace.” Ser Jorah assured her. “You made them a very generous offer. They are the fools not to take it.”

Even still, Daenerys was not satisfied. She was going to make the Golden Company turn: she did not know how, but she was determined.

And once Daenerys Stormborn set her mind to something, nothing was going to stop her until she got it.  

* * *

**JON**

When they returned to the camp at Harrenhal, they were surprised to see the Baratheon banners were once again now among their ranks. Jon felt excitement bubble up inside him. “Arya’s back.” He mumbled, mostly to himself, pulling his horse to a halt and jumping out of the saddle.

His little sister burst out of the crowd at the sight of him. “Jon!” She looked well, her hair braided off to the side, and she was wearing a jacket Jon did not recognize, black leather with Baratheon gold silk lining the inside. Arya took off running and Jon raced to meet her, opening his arms for her and pulling her into a crushing hug. He lifted her up and spun her like he had not done in a long time, and Arya laughed into his neck.

“It is so good to see you, little sister.” He whispered, kissing the crown of her head before putting her back down on the ground. “I am glad you are well.”

“You too.” Arya said, smiling up at him. “I got to Gendry in time, thankfully.” Her smile faltered. “Unfortunately, Davos’s son…”

Jon cut her off. “Sansa told me. I am truly sorry, but know it is not your fault.”

Arya nodded. “Thank you.”

Jorah offered Daenerys a hand to help the pregnant queen down from her horse, and Tyrion got off his own mount with only a minor bit of difficulty. “Goodsister,” Daenerys greeted Arya warmly. “It is lovely to see you so soon. Is my cousin with you? Is he well?”

“Gendry is fine, and yes he is back at our tent.”

It was only then that Jon noticed the freckled, dark-haired little girl standing a few feet behind Arya. She was a timid little thing, and could not look him in the eye. “Hello,” Jon said gently to her. “What is your name?”

The girl looked nervous. “Elinda Trant, Your Grace, if it please you.”

“Elinda is my new handmaiden.” Arya informed them.

Jon laughed instinctively. “You have a handmaiden?”

“It’s not funny!”

“My lady,” Little Elinda said. “Do you need anything of me? Should I go turn down your bed? Or order some supper?” Jon laughed again, causing Arya to scowl at him.  

“That’s quite all right, Elinda. Go run off now.” The little girl did so, and Arya promptly whacked Jon on the chest, whilst Daenerys, Jorah and Tyrion watched on in amusement.

“You would strike your king?” Jon joked with her, which only caused Arya to hit him again.

“You may be my king, but you’re also my brother. It’s my job to keep you in line.” Arya said. “The Stormlanders wanted to make the poor thing a prisoner after the battle, so I took her on to look after her.”

“So now you have someone to braid your hair and call you ‘my lady’? You’re practically Sansa.”

“Shut up! I’m still fully capable of washing and dressing myself – she’s more of a companion than anything else. I brought her with me so I can start teaching her how to fight.” Teaching a little girl self-defense? Now _that_ sounded more like Arya. His sister grabbed his arm. “Come on now, you can come say hello to Gendry and Davos.”  

When the five of them entered the Baratheon tent, they found Gendry seated at the long table set up in the center, Ser Davos next to him, while Sandor Clegane was sitting in the corner of the tent sharpening his sword. Across the table from Gendry a young, blonde lord who Jon did not recognize was seated, and standing nearby was a tall, fifty or sixty-something year old lord with graying blonde hair and blue eyes which looked very familiar. When Jon and Daenerys stepped inside, everyone immediately rose to their feet, but Jon gestured for them to sit back down. “No need for that, please.”

Daenerys moved towards Gendry. “I am glad to see you are well, cousin.” She said, greeting him with a hug. “We were all worried about you.”

Gendry hugged her back. “It is good to see you too, Your – ” Daenerys pulled back, raising an eyebrow at him before he could finish. “I mean, _cousin_.”

Jon greeted Gendry with a brotherly clamp on the shoulder, then turned towards Ser Davos. He smiled sadly at the older man. “The queen and I were sorry to hear about your loss, Ser Davos.”

“Thank you, Your Graces. I am grateful for your sympathies, and all I can do now is take comfort in the fact that my Devan died bravely.” He was trying to maintain a brave face, but Jon could tell that he was struggling to hold it all together.

Daenerys rejoined Jon’s side, and gently squeezed Ser Davos’s hand. “Please give our condolences to Lady Marya as well – if there is anything we can do for either of you, just ask.”

“Lady Marya has remained in the Stormlands with our sons for safety, Your Grace.” Ser Davos told her. “But I will tell her about your kind words the next time I write to her. As for your offer, there is not much to be done. I’d just like to keep moving onwards, and focus on building a better world for the sons I have left.”

Jon nodded in understanding, and Arya stepped forward. “Brother, goodsister, allow me to introduce Lord Arstan Selmy, Lord of Harvest Hall – ” The young blonde lord bowed his head. “ – and Lord Selwyn of Tarth, Lord of Evenfall Hall, called the Evenstar.” She gestured towards the older lord, and Jon suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. Brienne’s resemblance to her father was remarkable.

Lord Selmy walked around the table to clasp Daenerys’s hands. “My queen,” He said. “It is an honor to finally meet you. I have heard many stories of your goodness and your courage.”

“You are too kind, my lord.” Daenerys said, smiling. “From the bottom of my heart I thank you for the loyalty you’ve shown me. Your great-uncle was an absolutely wonderful man, and I considered him one of my truest friends and supporters. I hope I can always count on your friendship as well – has anyone ever told you that you have Ser Barristan’s eyes?”

Jon had never met Ser Barristan Selmy, but with the way Lord Arstan’s blue eyes sparkled in that instant, Jon bet that he looked very much like a young Barristan the Bold. “Thank you, Your Grace. There would be no honor greater than to be considered a friend of yours. I hope I can serve my queen half as well as my great-uncle served you.”

Meanwhile, Lord Tarth approached Jon and they shook his hands. The much taller man had a strong, firm grip. “Your Grace,” He said. “I have heard nothing but praise for you.”

“Same to you, Lord Tarth. It is nice to finally meet you – your daughter speaks so highly of you. I hope you know what a cherished friend Lady Brienne has been to my sisters, to all of us really.”

“She is a special one, my girl. I am very proud of her. I look forward to seeing her again today.” The Lord of Evenfall Hall paused, a queer smile on his face. “Forgive me for this strange question, Your Grace – but tell me, how much do you know about the Lord of Casterly Rock?”

“You mean Jaime Lannister?” Tyrion piped up, having overheard their conversation. “He is my brother. What of him?”

“I’ve heard many conflicting reports about him over the years. I figured those who know him personally would be the best to ask if I wanted an accurate picture.”  

Jon supposed that the things Lord Tarth had heard about Jaime Lannister could not be good. He did not know if an honorable Tarth would think very highly of a man who was still called Kingslayer. “What does a lord from the Stormlands need with the Warden of the West?” He asked.

The older man shrugged. “My daughter has mentioned that he is…to borrow your turn of phrase, Your Grace, a cherished friend. I simply wanted to know what you think of his character.”

“My brother has a very strong character, I assure you Lord Tarth.” Tyrion said defensively. “He is not perfect, but he has always done right by your daughter, I assure you. If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself.”

“I believe I shall.”

Jon did not know exactly what was going on, and based on the way Tyrion was looking at Tarth there seemed to be some sort of subtext he was missing, but he answered nonetheless. “I do not know Lord Lannister well, my lord, but my wife and I would not have named him Lord of Casterly Rock if we did not think him capable. He fought valiantly in the War for the Dawn, and I agree with the Hand that your daughter seems to respect him. If you wish to know more than that, you will have to ask Brienne yourself.”

Tarth nodded. “Thank you for your honest answer, Your Grace.” He looked at Tyrion. “And you as well, my lord Hand.”

Now Daenerys had finished reminiscing about Ser Barristan with Lord Selmy, and Jon heard her invite their new allies to sup with them in an hour, but before Selmy or Tarth could reply the tent flap opened and a squire stepped inside. “A letter for the Mistress of Whisperers.” He said, and Arya stepped forward to take a scroll from his hands. “And a Ser Donnel and a Lady Melony here to speak with you, Your Graces.”

Jon recognized the man and woman who stepped into the tent now. Ser Donnel was part of the Winterfell guard, and Melony was Sansa’s handmaiden. Melony was crying fat, ugly sobs, while Ser Donnel looked serious and stone-faced. “What is the matter?” Jon asked. “Is Sansa ill?” He realized he had not seen his sister all day, though he had not thought much of it at the time. She sometimes broke her fast alone, and he’d left before the afternoon meal to ride out to meet the Golden Company. It was strange that she had not come to greet Arya though…

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Melony said through her sobs. “I…I did not think Lady Stark would get hurt…”

“Hurt?” Daenerys repeated. “Hurt how?”

“When we accompanied Lady Stark and Ser Harrold on their ride yesterday, my queen,” Ser Donnel told her. “We…we left them alone for a while. We lost sight of them, so we returned to the castle, thinking perhaps they’d already turned back. Except when Melony went to tend to Lady Stark this morning and found her gone, we suspected that they had actually never returned.”

“And what were you two doing when you were supposed to be watching my sister?” Jon barked. Ser Donnel did not answer him, and Melony blushed, which was all the answer he needed. “We should send out a search party at once – ”

“We already found Ser Harrold, my king.” Donnel told him. “His…his body was discovered by the woods. Some snow fell on top it in the night, so it was partially obscured at first.” Melony began to cry harder.

Jon felt a sudden surge of anger. _He and Harry were supposed to be protecting my sister._ He thought. _She could be anywhere by now…someone could’ve taken her…_ He did not want to consider the other possibility. “You were incredibly reckless.” He told Ser Donnel firmly. “I should have both of you punished for your carelessness.”

“My king, it was an honest mistake – ” His words only made Jon angrier, and he moved forward with a fist clenched, but Ser Davos yanked him back.

“That is enough.”

Jon looked at Davos. “My sister is gone! With last night’s snow, now we can’t even see which way she might have went – or more accurately, which way she might have been taken. How are we to find her now?”

“She could not have gotten far, my love – ” Dany started to say, but Arya suddenly looked up from her raven scroll, interrupting her.

“I think I know where she is.” When Jon looked at Arya, her face was pale, her eyes angry. “This letter is from my spy at the Red Keep. Apparently a band of outlaws have promised to bring Cersei a valuable prisoner of war. She is eagerly anticipating the arrival.”

Jon’s stomach clenched. If this letter was true, there was not a doubt in his mind that this prisoner was Sansa. He did not even want to think about the things Cersei Lannister might do if she had her. “We have to start for King’s Landing.” He ordered. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Gendry said. “It’s already sunset. The troops aren’t ready to march.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Tyrion interjected. Jon and Dany’s usually methodical Hand looked like he was barely containing his outrage. “If Cersei really does get her hands on Sansa, she _will_ kill her. Every moment is precious. We can’t let her lay a finger on my – ” He cut himself off, like he’d just said something he shouldn’t.

Ser Davos gave Tyrion a look. “Your what?”

Tyrion gulped. “My wife. Sansa and I recently came to the agreement to resume our old marriage. Apparently the annulment Littlefinger said he’d procured never came.” He looked at Jon and Daenerys, the anger in his eyes having faded away into shame. “She went on that ride with Ser Harrold to tell him that she was going to be with me and not him. It’s my fault that this happened. I was supposed to protect her, and I may have cost her life instead…”     

This was all too much for Jon to process at once, and while he had a million questions he wanted to ask Tyrion, now was not the time. He needed to focus on getting Sansa back, and nothing else. “It is not your fault, my lord Hand.” Daenerys assured him. “Sansa is not going to die, I assure you.”

Tyrion could not look at her. “You don’t know that,” He said. “And if something does happen to her, I’ll blame myself forever.”

“Nothing is going to happen to Sansa!” Arya snapped. “I agree with Jon. We are going to get my sister back, and I am going to slit that bitch Cersei’s throat.” She reached for Needle, attached to her waist.

“If Cersei really has the little bird,” the Hound said, making himself known for the first time in this conversation. “We better damn well move fast.” He stood up, holding his now sharpened blade.

“Are you sure this is the smartest decision, Your Grace?” Ser Davos asked gently. “Our soldiers are not ready. Darkness is falling, and it looks like it may snow again – ”

“I don’t care if it’s smart or not.” Jon told him. “This is my sister. I won’t sit around and debate this while her life is at risk.” Arya nodded in silent agreement.

Daenerys touched his arm. “Perhaps we could fly Drogon and Rhaegal to the Red Keep. How can Cersei stand a chance against two dragons? We’ll get her surrender and save Sansa.”

“Cersei still has the Golden Company, Your Grace.” Ser Jorah reminded her. “If she really does have Lady Stark, the Red Keep cannot burn while she may still be inside it – and whether she has her or not, we know for certain that she has Lord Tarly’s family.”

“That is why we must march tonight.” Jon repeated, firmer this time. “There is too much at stake. We march with the men we have tonight, and we do not stop until we get to the city – not to eat, not to sleep. I will not let Cersei Lannister touch a single _hair_ on Sansa’s head. We go tonight.”

This time, no one questioned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the battle begins. Not entirely sure what POVs I'm going to go with because I might switch a few around in my outline. Sansa V and Brienne IV will definitely be two of them though!


	13. King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Targaryen armies march on King's Landing to take back the Iron Throne and hopefully save Westeros from Cersei's grasp.

**SANSA**

It felt like years since she had been taken from Harrenhal, but in reality she knew it had been only a matter of days. As the band of outlaws dragged her towards King’s Landing under constant guard, she silently counted the sunrises and sunsets to keep track of time. Not for the first time in her life, Sansa felt so much older now than she had just a few days ago. She was only a woman of twenty years, and yet she’d experienced things that others three times her age had never dreamt of.

As she was led towards the city, towards her certain death, she would not give her captors the satisfaction of looking at them. They jeered and jostled her, their ill-smelling breath puffing against her face, but still Sansa kept her eyes trained firmly ahead, never flinching. She tried to disassociate, tried to get her mind off her circumstances, tried not to remember how Ser Harrold Hardyng had looked as he collapsed dead off his horse. _I am Sansa of House Stark._ She told herself. _Daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. Lady of Winterfell. Wardeness of the North. The Red Wolf. Yes, I am a wolf._

When they reached King’s Landing, there were crowds pouring into the city walls, lords and ladies from all over Westeros who came – willingly or reluctantly – to bend the knee, smallfolk begging for entrance as they cried and held their babies above their heads, screaming for Queen Cersei to have mercy upon them. _Cersei has no mercy._ Sansa wanted to tell them.

The men forced her to walk the rest of the way and as she was dragged through the streets by the rope tied around her wrists, she took elbows to the ribs and kicks to the legs.  Her hair was matted and dirty, and the bodice of the black dress she’d been wearing since Harrenhal was now ripped in half, exposing some of her smallclothes underneath, but still Sansa would not cry or cringe, or do anything to betray the emotions she was feeling. _I am Sansa of House Stark, sister to King Jon, Mistress of Coin to him and his wife Queen Daenerys._ As her captors manhandled her, she resisted the urge to smile, silently delighting in the thought of Jon killing them all.

Finally they were led into the Red Keep, and Sansa came face to face with two men she’d never seen before. One was a balding man with rotten teeth, an apple sigil on his doublet, while the other had dark hair and beady eyes set in a cruel face. “Lord Symun of House Fossoway at your services, madam, rightful Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.” The first man said. “This is Lord Manfred Trant, rightful Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, by the grace of Cersei of House Lannister, the one true queen.”

Sansa raised her chin towards them defiantly. “My goodbrother is Lord of Storm’s End.” She said. “And Samwell Tarly is Lord of Highgarden. Cersei is not the true queen. Westeros belongs to Jon and Daenerys Targaryen.”

Fossoway and Trant looked at each other. “You are summoned to appear before Her Grace, Lady Stark.” The latter said. “If you will not come willingly to be judged for your treasons, then we will have no choice but to use force.”

“Threaten me all you like,” Sansa told them. “But I will not go willingly.” _I am a wolf. Cersei is not my queen._ She stood her ground and Trant and Fossoway grabbed her arms, dragging her forward.

“It would be easier if you would not struggle.” Fossoway said, but Sansa jerked forward in an attempt to claw at his face, earning her a yank from Trant. She would not make this easy for them.  

The band of outlaws tried to follow, but a Queensguard held them back. “We want our reward!” One of them was shouting, but Sansa knew there would be no reward. They were stupid for not realizing it sooner, and she cast one last look at the men over her shoulder as she was escorted to the throne room, relishing the looks of shock on their ugly faces.

Fossoway and Trant threw her into the throne room and she landed on her hands and knees, the heavy doors shut loudly behind her. Sansa did not look up, panting and staring at the ground, unwilling to speak first. “Get up.” A voice ordered, and she immediately recognized it as Cersei Lannister’s angry, leonine bark. She was seated across the chamber on the Iron Throne, but Sansa did not look at her, or give any indication that she’d heard at all. “I said _get up_.” Still, Sansa did nothing. If Cersei wanted her, she could come and get her, but she was not going to get up of her own accord, remaining crouched on the floor in her silent act of defiance. Cersei Lannister was no queen of hers, and she would not take orders from her. 

Finally she heard the sounds of heavy, stomping footfalls and she was yanked to her feet by another Queensguard, who smacked her across the face. Sansa refused to look into his eyes as he grabbed her by the sleeve, ripping it, and marched her before the throne. Her eyes remained trained downwards, focusing on the stones of the floor. _I am Sansa of House Stark, wife of Tyrion Lannister. He will come for me, and then we will kill all of you._

“Look at me.” Again Sansa did not respond to Cersei’s demands, until finally the Queensguard grabbed her by the chin and forcefully pointed it in the direction of the Iron Throne. For a few moments Sansa’s vision was still blurry from the sting of the slap, and slowly her sight began to return little by little. “Look at me.” Slowly, Sansa’s eyes moved from the floor to the long, black dress Cersei was wearing, the skirt coiling about the base of the throne like a lion’s tail. The top of the dress was gold and armor-like, befitting the warrior queen that Cersei believed herself to be.  

It was only when Sansa was forced to look at Cersei’s face that her strength momentarily failed her and she let out an involuntary gasp. At first, she did not even recognize the woman seated before her, wondering if this was all some cruel joke. The woman seated on the Iron Throne did not even look human. Her face was grey as a corpse, her eyes as red as blood, veins and scars popping against her skin. Her golden blonde hair had grown back in uneven clumps, no longer the beautiful mane she once had, her twisted crown nestled against her deathly pale forehead. She did not even look alive. It was only when she opened her mouth and began to laugh that Sansa realized this really was Cersei, but not the Cersei she had once known. This Cersei was monstrous, malformed, something not quite human.

“You are so pretty, little dove.” How strange that old nickname sounded coming from that pair of dry, cracked lips. “Prettier than I am. Tell me, do you think you’ll still be so pretty when your lovely little face starts to rot, when the maggots come to devour your eyes, when your body is cut into quarters and displayed on my castle gates?”

Immediately, Sansa pushed away her shock and schooled her face back into a hard expression. “I’m not scared of you.” Cersei’s trilling laughter was her response.

“You should be.” She said. Grand Maester Qyburn – though he was not really a maester in truth, and no doubt the one responsible for this cruel creation – stood on one side of the throne, and on the other was the head of Cersei’s Queensguard, the knight who was just as much of a monster as she was. Sansa could see his bloodshot eyes peeking through his closed helm. “Ser Gregor, let’s give Lady Stark a little taste of what awaits her.”

The Mountain stormed down the steps towards her and Sansa refused to look away as he closed the distance between them, her head held high. _I am a wolf. I will not cower before a dog._ Even as his mailed fist connected with her face, Sansa did not cry. She could feel a warm liquid pooling from her mouth and she weakly reached to touch her now split lip. She turned back to the Mountain and spit at him, blood and saliva dripping down his helmet.

The other Queensguard who had been holding her upright let go of her unexpectedly and Sansa collapsed at the base of the Iron Throne, her knees screaming in pain as they whacked against the hard floor. The Mountain’s fist connected with her face again and again until all she could see were stars. Someone – she did not know if it was the Mountain or one of his sworn brothers – kicked her repeatedly in the ribs until she could not breathe.

When they finally stopped hitting her, she looked back up at Cersei through her spinning vision. One of her eyes had swelled shut from the Mountain’s punch and her entire mouth was filled with blood, but Sansa refused to back down. No matter how much her body hurt, they would not see her beg for her life. “Tyrion will come for me.”

“Oh my sweet sister-in-law,” Cersei said. “That is exactly what I’m hoping for. Do you think your husband will still want to kiss you when I present him with your head? Do you think he will cry when he watches you die in front of him, just as I watched my Joffrey die, the day you two took him away from me?”

 _Tyrion and I did not kill Joffrey._ It was Olenna, Jaime had told them so. _She should know that, she’s lost her wits._ “You are mad!” Sansa yelled at her through her bloody mouth. “Tyrion and I may not have killed Joffrey, but we will kill you!”

Cersei smiled at her, only smiled. “I’d like to see you try, little dove.” She nodded at her guards. “Take her to the Maidenvault.”

Sansa was grabbed by the arm so strongly that the bone was pulled from its socket, her shoulder howling in protest. Two Queensguards led her through the castle silently, down into the depths of the Red Keep. “My family will kill you.” Sansa hissed, imagining Arya stabbing them with her sword and dagger, Jon burning them alive with his dragon. “Wait and see.” The two Queensguards said nothing, and finally they reached their destination. One of them unlocked a heavy metal door and the other tossed her inside. Sansa landed on her stomach and she could hear the sounds of the door being bolted behind her.

“Lady Stark?”

She looked up as a woman knelt before her, and it took a few moments for Sansa’s vision to adjust to the darkness of the room enough for her to recognize the familiar face. “Lady Tarly. What are you doing here?”

“Queen Cersei sent the Fossoways to Horn Hill.” Gilly was staring at her with wide eyes, and she gently reached to cup Sansa’s cheek. Sansa knew she must look like a wreck, with her black eye and busted lip, the top of her dress now hanging in tatters around her. “Goodmother,” Gilly called to someone. “Put some cloth in water for Lady Stark.”

Gilly helped Sansa to her feet, and her legs were throbbing from being repeatedly slammed against hard surfaces. A middle aged woman appeared from the darkness, holding a wet cloth. “This might sting, child.” She said in a soft voice, pressing the cold compress against Sansa’s swollen eye. She had to be Melessa Tarly – that gentle touch could only belong to a mother.

In the center of the room, a young woman was sitting with her knees pulled to her chest, sobbing hysterically. _Talla._ Sansa realized, remembering the name of Samwell Tarly’s sister. “I don’t want to marry Lord Fossoway! I’d rather kill myself than – ” She dissolved into tears. Gilly’s little son, though only four, toddled to his aunt’s side and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her bosom.

“Don’t cry, Auntie Talla.” She hugged him back, but did not stop weeping.

Gilly and Lady Melessa helped Sansa sit down. The Maidenvault was dark and empty, save for the one pallet on the floor which they were all being forced to share, and a chamber pot and wash basin in the corner. There was a half-eaten tray of food on the floor which contained only crusts of bread and a few rotting grapes. Sansa looked and saw a tattered rose banner hanging on the stone wall, and tears finally came to her eyes as she remembered that Margaery Tyrell had lived in the Maidenvault when she came to King’s Landing to marry Joffrey. Gone now were her bed and her wardrobe filled with dresses and her gigglings handmaidens from the Reach. Sansa’s heart ached, thinking of her lost friend.

 _I won’t let her break me, Margaery._ She silently vowed. _I’ll beat her, for both of us._

As she was settled onto the pallet, Sansa reached out to tentatively touch Talla Tarly’s hand, causing the other girl to look at her through red eyes. “You won’t have to marry him.” Sansa found herself saying. “My brother and his queen are going to come for the city, and Lord Tarly will be with them. He will come for you.” Talla was still crying, but she nodded slightly.

Now, Sansa glanced at Gilly and Lady Melessa. “Should we pray, or sing perhaps?”

There was a moment of silence as Gilly and Lady Melessa glanced at one another. “Aye,” Lady Melessa finally said. “That would be nice.”

Sansa knew many songs, but in the moment only one came to mind. She cleared her throat. “ _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day…_ ”

By the second verse Lady Melessa joined in, and Gilly looked to her mother-in-law, her lips moving as she stumbled over the unfamiliar words. Even Talla stopped crying and quietly sang along, clutching Sansa’s hand desperately in her own. Sansa squeezed it.

“ _Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way…_ ”

* * *

**ARYA**

They arrived in the city at dawn.

From the crest of a hill she stared down at the walled city, a winter sun slowly rising in the clear sky, the air so cold she could see her breath. There were crowds of people desperately trying to pool in, but all she could think about was one. _Sansa._ Shivering, Arya turned and headed back to the war council.

She pushed open the flap of the tent and stepped inside, where her brother, the queen, and all the other lords and officers were crowded around that massive table, covered by a map of King’s Landing. She silently slipped to Gendry’s side and her husband did not notice her until her arm was around his waist. He touched her shoulder and pulled her close.

“The queen and I shall enter the city from above on back of Drogon and Rhaegal.” Jon was saying, pointing at the map. “The Unsullied and the Dothraki shall storm the gates to gain entry, led by Ser Jorah. The Riverlands’ forces led by Lord Tully and the Stormlands’ forces led by Lord Baratheon shall follow. The Northmen and the Free Folk will attack from the south gate. Meanwhile by sea, the Greyjoy and Martell fleets will sail in from the bay and attack the Red Keep from the oceanside.”

“Surely there is a faster way to get to the Red Keep.” Queen Daenerys objected. “We cannot burn it down, but perhaps we could destroy the roof – ”

“Actually,” Arya piped up, and every head turned towards her. “I think I may be of service in that regard. I know my way around this city, and I could sneak some people inside. Allow me to take a few men – Lady Brienne, Lord Lannister, and the Hound of course.” From across the table Clegane grunted his approval.

“The Mountain’s life is mine to take.” He said. “And no one else’s.”

Arya smirked. “I might fight you for it.”

The Hound laughed. “I would damn sure kill you for the chance to kill him.”

Brienne rolled her eyes at them, then turned to Jon and Daenerys. “I will go with Lady Arya, Your Graces. After all, I made a promise to protect her and her sister.” Jaime Lannister nodded in approval as well.

“Very well – ”

But Tyrion cut Jon off. “Your Graces, let me go also.”

“Me too.” Surprisingly it was Samwell Tarly who spoke now. Even as said it, he looked unsure of himself.

“Are you certain?” Queen Daenerys asked. “Perhaps there are other ways you could better use your talents – ”

“I am certain.” the Hand insisted. “My wife is inside that castle. I will save her, or die trying.”

“Me too.” Lord Tarly repeated. When his voice faltered, he blushed and cleared his throat. “Me too.” He said again, firmer this time. “My wife and family are Cersei’s prisoners too. You named me Warden of the South, my queen – that’s a military title, and it is time I earned it.”

Daenerys gave Jon a wary glance, and he shrugged. “All right then.” The queen said. “But you will both need weapons. I won’t allow you to go inside unarmed.”

“Allow me, Your Grace.” Ser Jorah reached for his belt and unsheathed the sword hanging there. It was a large, two-handed greatsword with a hilt shaped like a bow and arrow, and as Ser Jorah passed it to Sam, the blade gave off the distinct glint of Valryian steel. “By right it belongs to you – I appreciate you letting me borrow it for a while, but I have other weapons. This one is yours.” Sam smiled tentatively and accepted the sword.

“Fine then.” Jon sighed, glancing at Arya. “But how exactly _are_ you planning to smuggle yourselves into the Red Keep without being recognized?”

Arya smiled a slow, sly smile. “I have my ways.”

Less than an hour later, she was walking through the depths of the Red Keep quiet as a shadow, Needle concealed at her waist and one hand on her dagger, the only sound the dripping of dirty water against stone. She was barely able to see five feet in front of her, but that didn’t matter. She knew her way around the dark. Eventually the sewers transformed into dirt and timber, and then dressed stone. Her wet boots squeaked against the floor and she took smaller steps to compensate.

Finally Arya came upon what she’d been looking for, a flight of stone steps leading up into a narrow well. It was the same well she’d peered down years ago after chasing cats, eavesdropping. Slowly she began to climb up, but then she heard voices from above and Arya pressed her body against the wall, waiting in the shadows.

“ – the Imp will come to collect his whore soon enough.” She heard an unfamiliar voice say, and Arya scowled, knowing he was speaking of Sansa. She looked up through the darkness and saw two men. The speaker was middle-aged and balding, and the other had his back to her, but she could see he was big, burly and brown-haired. “He’ll bring his dragon bitch and the bastard pretender with him.”

 _Jon and Daenerys._ She did not appreciate the callous way these men spoke of her loved ones, to say the least. Arya remained crouched in the darkness, listening.

“Go pay a visit to the Maidenvault.” The second man said, in a voice that was somewhat familiar. She did not know why but it sent a chill up her spine. “I need to check on Her Grace’s ships.” The balding man nodded and turned to head back up in the castle. Quietly Arya continued her climb, but then she saw the glow of a torch ahead of her, and heard the sounds of heavy footfalls. The second man was coming for the stairs. She looked at the steps below her, but she knew even if she ran he would hear her and possibly catch up. With a deep breath, Arya rose up to meet him.

When she came face to face with him, she almost gasped. _Ser Meryn._ In the glow of his torchlight, he looked so much like the late Kingsguard that Arya thought it actually was him for a moment, until she remembered that he was dead. She’d killed Ser Meryn Trant. The man standing before her had the same brown hair, beard and slanting nose, but his mouth was wider, his sideburns bushier, his hairline fuller. This was not Ser Meryn, but his brother. “Who the fuck are you?” Lord Manfred demanded. When Arya did not answer him, he reached for the large greatsword at his side.

His sword may have been larger, but Arya did not doubt she was better. As Trant fumbled for his sword, Arya got down low and dashed between his legs, causing him to stumble. By the time Trant got his bearings, she had already reached the top of the stairs and took off running. “Hey, stop!”

Arya ran through the dark corridors, barely able to see. She found a door and threw it open, Trant not far behind now as he raced after her, breathing heavily. She went through the door and stepped into a cellar, slightly lighter than the well, and found herself in the middle of a dragon’s jaws.  

One of the skulls – the largest of them all, the skull of Balerion the Black Dread – now had a large hole in the dead center, but other than that they were in the exact same positions as the last time Arya had been here. Before she’d cowered in fear. Now she greeted the dragons like old friends.

When Trant stepped into the dragon cellar, panting, he looked around in confusion. “Where are you, you little bastard?” He yelled, spinning in circles looking for her. “I know you’re in here! Come out and meet a quick death, or I swear I’ll hang you and rape your corpse!”

 _I’ll come out._ Arya thought. _But the only one dying is you._ She jumped out from Balerion’s hole and pounced on Trant’s back.

In shock Trant dropped his greatsword and it skidded across the floor. He cursed and tried to throw her off but Arya clung on desperately, her nails digging into his eyes. He screamed and she could feel blood oozing against her fingers. Arya jumped off his back and Trant fell to his hands and knees, reaching blindly for his dropped sword. Arya kicked it further out of his reach. “Who the fuck am I? I’m Arya Stark Baratheon. You betrayed my husband, and the punishment for treason is death. Do you have any last words?”

Blood was dripping from Trant’s gouged eyes and down his cheeks. “Fuck you!”

Arya hmphed. “Not the last words I would’ve chosen, but suit yourself.” She said, before driving her dagger into Trant’s throat.

When she pulled the blade out, blood foamed at Manfred Trant’s mouth and he collapsed face first on the ground, dead. Arya simply wiped the flecks of his blood from her face and reached for something buried deep within her cloak, stepping over Trant’s corpse. _One._ She thought.

Then, she donned the face she’d used to kill his brother.

As she exited the cellar in the little girl’s face, her sword and dagger once again concealed, the sudden influx of light was almost blinding. She squinted against the sun and made her way down the halls, not too fast and not too slow, like she was meant to be there. As she passed the occasional harried servant or guard on patrol, no one gave the little girl walking to the maester’s chambers a second glance.

She slipped inside and found the older man sitting nonchalantly at his desk writing in a little journal, looking like he did not have a care in the world. “Maester Qyburn.” She said in the girl’s voice.

He looked up. “What are you doing here, child?” He pushed out his chair and walked closer to her, this little girl who must’ve been one of his many little birds. But she wasn’t one of the birds – she was the whisperer. “You know you’re not supposed to be here. Did you get scared?”

Arya shook her head. “I’m not scared of anything.”

Qyburn laughed and knelt before her, so he was looking up at her now. “We’ve been over this. You should be in the city, with the Substance. This is on the queen’s orders, and you want to help Her Grace, don’t you?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Would some candied plums give you more courage?” Arya nodded and Qyburn turned around, reaching for something in his desk.

She lifted up her dagger and drove it between his shoulder blades.

Qyburn whirled back around at the first stab and she struck him several more times in the chest before he fell back on the floor, wheezing, dying. Arya leaned over him and peeled the little girl’s face off, causing Qyburn’s eyes to go wide. “Oh…oh my…gods…”

“Where are your keys?”

Qyburn’s choking on his own blood was her only answer.

Arya stared down at his dead face, the eyes still open. _Two._ She looked on his desk but found no keys, and then began opening doors. When she threw open the door to a closet, she momentarily froze, finding an entire room filled with jars, each containing a substance greener than anything she’d ever seen…

Qyburn’s words came back to her. _You should be in the city, with the Substance._ Arya knew now what he had meant. She would have to hurry. She opened every drawer and closet in the chamber until she finally found the metal ring containing the keys to every room in the Red Keep.

Arya turned and stepped over Qyburn’s body, then raced to the door to let the others inside.

* * *

**SAMWELL**

While the others headed up towards the throne room in search of Cersei, he and Lord Tyrion headed deeper into the depths of the castle, towards the Maidenvault. Sam could feel beads of perspiration on his brow. He had never been particularly brave. As he and Lord Tyrion tiptoed through the halls of the Red Keep, he kept Heartsbane sheathed under his cloak, silently praying he would not have to use it. The sword was heavy and he could feel it bouncing against his leg with every step.

His father had never wanted him to have this sword. Lord Randyll had told him that he would be the death of their house, and at the time Sam believed him. Ever since he was a child he had internalized all of his father’s taunts and silently withstood his abuse, until he started to believe that maybe he wasn’t worth anything, that maybe his father was right.

 _But I’m not going to let him be right_. Gilly was the one who taught him that he was worth more, who proved to him that he was worthy of love. She had done so much for him, and now she needed him. _I will not fail Gilly._ Yes, he could be brave: for his wife, for his sister, for his mother, for his children.

They slipped inside the castle sept. Not as grand as the destroyed Sept of Baelor had once been, it had crystal windows and seven altars for each aspect of the Seven, though the relics or offerings had been covered up by sheets. The statues of each face of the god were too large to be entirely covered and were all draped to varying degrees – the Crone’s lantern was exposed, the Maiden’s face half-obscured, and the Father’s watchful stone eyes still looked down on them.

Before they could go any further, Sam heard the sounds of footsteps approaching. “Behind here.” Lord Tyrion mumbled, grabbing Sam by the arm. Together they threw themselves behind the statue of the Stranger, remaining crouched in the shadows.

Breathing heavily from fright, Sam watched as a man exited the Maidenvault and began to walk across the sept. Sam recognized him – they had only met once, when he was a child, but he remembered Symun Fossoway’s rotten teeth and empty laugh. Even back then, he’d already been going bald, and any hair he had fifteen years ago was now almost completely gone. Sam had given him a lot of thought lately, as Symun Fossoway was the man who Cersei had named Lord of Highgarden, and who their father wanted Talla to marry. Sam frowned, knowing that Fossoway was the one who had ordered for his family to be brought here.

He was halfway through the sept when Fossoway suddenly stopped, inches away from the statue of the Stranger. “Is someone there?”

Lord Tyrion cursed under his breath and pulled Sam farther behind the statue. They both turned away, facing the wall and daring not to move as Fossoway began to walk around the sept.

“I know someone’s in here. I can hear your breathing.” Fossoway called out, and Sam could hear the sound of him drawing his sword. “Come on out, or I’ll drag you out…”

Sam knew that they had no choice. _How can I get us out of this?_ His eyes landed on the altar, and he quickly began to pull sheets off it. “What are you doing?” Lord Tyrion hissed quietly at him, but Sam did not answer, folding the sheets up into two piles.

He handed one off to Lord Tyrion. “Just follow my lead.” He said, before he stepped out from behind the statue.

Lord Fossoway looked at him, and no recognition lit up his expression. The only time he ever met Sam was when he was a little boy, too terrified to even meet his eyes. Sam was lucky he did not remember him. “Who are you?”

“We’re servants.” Sam blurted out, trying to sound sure of himself, as Lord Tyrion appeared behind him, now carrying the second set of sheets. “The queen asked us to bring these to her prisoners in the Maidenvault.”

“Why were you behind that statue?”

Sam did not have an answer for that, but luckily Lord Tyrion could think quick on his feet. “Praying, my lord.” He said. “For Her Grace’s victory against her enemies. May the Stranger come and take their souls to the depths of the seven hells, where they belong.”

Fossoway nodded, but his eyes still brimmed with suspicion. “Very well. My bride is in there – she may be a weeping fool at the moment, but I want her well treated. Of course she should have fresh sheets.” Sam resisted the urge to scowl when Fossoway called Talla a fool. “Carry on.”

Lord Tyrion bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.” He turned and started to head towards the Maidenvault, and Sam followed after.

He could hear the sounds of Fossoway’s footsteps retreating, but then they paused. “Wait.” Nervously, Sam turned around and found Fossoway was now staring at them, thoughtful. “A dwarf and a fat man, some interesting servants you make…in fact, Her Grace was looking for a dwarf with a scar just like yours…”

Instinctively, Sam stepped in front of Tyrion. “We do not want any trouble, my lord.”

Fossoway grinned, exposing a row of yellow teeth. “ _My lord_ , not _m’lord_. You’re highborns, aren’t you?” He drew his sword from its scabbard. “They say its unholy to kill a man in a sept, but I’ve never been much of a holy man.”

With no other choice, Sam drew Heartsbane, trying his best to look fierce. “Walk away, my lord.”

From behind, Tyrion pulled on his cloak. “Tarly, let’s go. You’re not going to fight him.”

Even though Lord Tyrion’s voice was low, Lord Fossoway evidently still heard him as a manic grin lit up his face. “Tarly.” He repeated. “Ha, Lord Randyll’s good for nothing son, in the flesh. Your little friend is right about one thing, Tarly – you’re not going to fight me. You don’t have the balls.”

Anger filled Sam’s body, and before he even realized he was doing it, he charged forward.

Heartsbane clashed against Fossoway’s sword, and the other lord reacted a few seconds behind, not expecting Sam’s move. Heartsbane was much larger than Fossoway’s sword, but Fossoway was quicker and stronger than him. The fight passed in a blur and Sam could barely hold Heartsbane as he attempted to match Fossoway blow for blow, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. Sam could smell Fossoway’s disgusting breath and the Lord of Cider Hall did not fight fair, kicking Sam in the gut to send him falling to his knees.

“Now,” Fossoway snarled. “I’m going to kill you like your lord father should have.”

Lord Tyrion was no fighter either, but he was not going to give up easily. He drew the knife he’d been given before they left camp. “It’s two against one, Fossoway.”

Symun Fossoway only laughed. “Fine, have it your way dwarf – I’ll kill you first.” He lunged. 

Sam may have been on the floor, but his mind was still working. He remembered something he’d read once, about the arteries in the human body. With the last of his strength he grabbed Heartsbane and stabbed Fossoway in the thigh.

Fossoway looked shocked when he looked down at the sword now sticking out of his thigh. Sam pulled the blade out and blood spurted everywhere – on him, on Lord Tyrion, all over the floor. “You fucking stabbed me…” Fossoway stumbled backwards and collapsed at the feet of the Stranger.

Lord Tyrion came and offered him a hand. “Quickly now.” He said to Sam, and the two of them raced to the Maidenvault.

The door was locked from the outside and it took both of them to move the heavy metal bar. The door burst open, ricocheting off the wall. It was so dark inside the Maidenvault that Sam could barely see. “Sansa?” Tyrion called. “Are you in there?”

“Lord Tyrion? Sam?”

Gilly appeared out of the darkness of the Maidenvault and there was his mother a few feet behind her, clutching Little Sam. Sam exhaled in relief. “Daddy!” Little Sam cried happily, running towards him. Sam embraced him, and then used his other arm to grab Gilly.

“Oh thank the gods.” He sighed. As he hugged his wife and son, Lady Melessa approached him tentatively and it was only then that Sam remembered he had flecks of Symun Fossoway’s blood on his face. “It’s all right, Mother. It’s not mine.”

Then Lady Stark stepped into the light, holding the hand of a red-faced Talla, and Sam could hear Lord Tyrion’s sharp intake of breath. One of Sansa’s eyes was black and blue, swollen shut, and her lip had a healing wound down the middle, surrounded by dried blood. “Tyrion?”

She dropped Talla’s hand to hug him and Tyrion’s lips pressed gently along her hairline. “Who did this to you?” He asked. “Cersei? I’ll kill her.”

“No,” Sansa insisted, touching his shoulder. “Please. Please just stay with me.” Reluctantly, Tyrion nodded.

“Of course.”

Sam turned back to Gilly and she pulled back, cupping his cheek. “Are you hurt?” He asked her, and she shook her head. “Good – now let’s get out of here.”  

* * *

**BRIENNE**

The antechamber outside the throne room was empty save for a circle of roaring fire pits around the perimeter, the doors to the throne room closed and bolted. As soon as they arrived, they were met by Cersei’s Queensguard, standing in formation outside the doors. Since Jaime’s dismissal, only six remained, all of them clothed in armor with the three sword symbol, their closed helms making them indistinguishable from one another. There was one, however, who Brienne could clearly identify: the Mountain. He was taller and larger than the rest of them, and Brienne could just see bulging red eyes and ghastly grey skin peeking out from the eye holes in his helmet.

They were outnumbered, four against six. Arya was quick and fierce, but smaller than anyone else here by far. The Hound could take two of them on at once, but with he and the Mountain targeting each other, the Hound would probably need to focus all his attention on fighting his brother. Brienne supposed she could fight two at once – she’d faced worse odds before – but she did not know if Jaime could with one hand. In his prime, he easily could’ve taken three or four down on his own, but despite his diligent practice he was never going to be back to the strength of his youth.

Brienne did not know if they had any chance to win, but they could not back down. _No chance,_ She thought. _And no choice._ She placed her hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt.

The Hound stepped forward. “Well,” He said, looking at the Mountain. “We meet again, brother. I’ve been dreaming of this day for a long while. Today is the day that I kill you.”

The Mountain did not say anything, just drew his sword, and his sworn brothers followed suit. Immediately Brienne unsheathed Oathkeeper and Jaime did the same with Widow’s Wail. The Hound and Arya also drew their weapons: the Hound with his sword, Arya with Needle and her dagger.    

The two opposing factions stared at each other for a heartbeat, and then they charged.

The Hound and the Mountain naturally went for each other, their swords clashing as they met each other blow for blow. They were both amazingly strong, and it seemed to be a fair fight. One of the Queensguard went for Arya, seeming to think she would be an easy kill, and he seemed surprised with how gracefully she dodged his blows, running circles around him.

As for the other four, they came for Brienne and Jaime. The two of them fought back to back as they were encircled. As soon as Brienne fought one of them off, the second would be on her, and then the cycle would continue. She scarcely had a moment to breathe. “Left!” Jaime called to her, and Brienne turned just in time. The sword point bounced off her armor and Brienne sliced at him, taking the Queensguard’s head clean off his shoulders. The body crumpled on the floor and the head rolled, spraying blood.

“Switch with me!” Brienne said to Jaime. She knew that she could take on two, and she did not know if he could. When Jaime didn’t listen to her, Brienne grabbed him and forced him to switch places with her. Now two men were on her again and Brienne kicked, slashed, screamed, anything.

Brienne killed one of her opponents by sticking her sword into one of the holes in his helmet, puncturing his eye and sending him to his knees. Jaime triumphed over his as well and then he was by her side, helping her against the final Queensguard.

Meanwhile, the Hound and the Mountain were still struggling. The Mountain grabbed one of the Hound’s arms and bent it backwards like a twig, causing the Hound to yell in pain. Arya, meanwhile, found the weak point in the Queensguard’s armor and stabbed him with her dagger, killing him with a wound to the throat. Then she went to help the Hound.

Even with his left arm now dangling limply by his side, the Hound fought on, now holding his sword one-handed. He continued to match the Mountain, gritting his teeth and screaming. “Die, you fucker!”

Arya got down on her hands and knees and came up behind the Mountain, driving her sword through one of the Mountain’s legs. He stumbled and turned around, forgetting the Hound to reach for her, grabbing her by the throat. He was so strong that he could lift her several feet off the ground with one hand, but Arya did not give up even as she was being choked, sticking her fingers into the Mountain’s helmet to poke his eyes.

The Hound took advantage of the Mountain being distracted and swung at him, knocking his helmet off, exposing an unnaturally grey face, complete with gouged red eyes, stitched up skin and pulsating veins. The Mountain dropped Arya, who landed on her back on the floor, the wind knocked out of her. However, the Hound lost his sword too, which went flying across the floor with the Mountain’s helmet. Now without a weapon, he charged at the Mountain with a guttural scream and grabbed his face –

Which he then promptly shoved into one of the fire pits.

Together Brienne and Jaime defeated the final Queensguard, sending him careening to the floor dead. Brienne looked back at the Hound, who was screaming as he shoved his brother’s face into the flames, burning his own hand as he did so. The Mountain fought, trying to throw him off, but Arya weakly got up and helped hold the Mountain’s feet still. Gradually over time he fought less and less. The air smelled like burning flesh.

Jaime reached for her hand. “Come on.” He said. “We don’t have a moment to waste.” With one last look at Arya and the Hound, who seemed to be holding their own, Brienne took his hand and together they went for the throne room.

Together they unbolted the door and burst inside. The chamber was empty, save for the lone figure sitting on the Iron Throne.

As they walked closer, Brienne could see Cersei more clearly. She was wearing a long, black dress with red velvet accents, a heavy necklace of rubies and gold hanging about her neck, her crown on her head. She looked like she was dressed for a funeral. _Her own,_ Brienne wondered. _Or the entire population of King’s Landing's_ _?_ Arya had told them she suspected there was wildfire all over the city. There were rumors that some wildfire had always remained after the reign of the Mad King, and if Cersei had added more, King’s Landing could easily go up in flames with a single spark.

But what was shocking was her face. Cersei Lannister had once been the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms, and now she was as ugly and grotesque as the Mountain. Brienne glanced at Jaime, and saw horror all over his face. “Brother,” Cersei’s voice was dripping with venom. “I’ve been waiting for you. I see you brought your whore.”

Any shock on Jaime’s face was gone in an instant, and he squared his jaw. “Enough, Cersei. It’s over.”

“Oh brother,” Cersei crooned. “It’s not over. Not as long as I still sit on the Iron Throne. If you want me, come and get me.”

“No one has to die.” Brienne said, trying to diffuse the situation. “Surrender now, and we’ll take you alive. You – you could return to Casterly Rock to live out the rest of your days, with your son.”

Cersei smiled a sick, twisted smile. “Are you as stupid as you are ugly? Oh, someone does have to die. Remember, all I need to do is take one of these torches off the walls, and all of us will go out.”

Before either Brienne or Jaime could say anything in reply, they were interrupted by the distant sound of crying.

A baby crying.

Instinctively Brienne followed the source of the noise, disappearing down one of the hallways adjoining the throne room. Inside one of the rooms, she found a wooden baby crib and peered inside, losing her breath when she saw the three or four month old infant lying down inside. He had the golden blonde hair and green eyes his mother and father shared – or at least, once shared – and Brienne picked the baby up, trying to shush him. She realized she did not even know the proper way to hold a baby, but figured she needed to support his head. “It’s all right, little one. Please don’t cry. I’m going to get us out of this, you and me and your father…”

How, she did not know, but she had to try.

When Brienne returned to the throne room holding the wailing infant, she saw Jaime’s eyes go wide at the sight. Cersei turned to her and extended her arms. “Give him to me.”

Brienne’s head was spinning, the baby was screaming at the top of his lungs, and she didn’t know what to do – but of one thing, she was absolutely certain. She was _not_ giving this baby to Cersei. “No.”

Cersei scowled at her. “Give him to me. He needs his mother.” There was fire in her eyes. _No, not fire._ Brienne silently corrected herself. _Wildfire._ It was a look of derangement, and of utter determination. She would take them all down with her if she had to, even the boy.

Jaime met Brienne halfway and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Brienne, go.” His voice was low, pleading. “Take him and go.”

“No! I – I won’t abandon you – ” They could blow up at any moment and she did not want to leave Jaime here alone with Cersei. They would leave together or die together.

But Jaime cut her off by pulling her in for a quick, rough kiss on the lips. Then he pulled back and pressed a gentle kiss to the crying baby’s head, his touch lingering for a moment longer. The look in his eyes was pure heartbreak. “I love you. Please go – _now_.”

 _I love you._ She did not know which one of them he was speaking to when he said that, but Brienne supposed it did not matter. With a conflicted mind and a heavy heart, she clutched the crying baby closer to her chest and fled the throne room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #notmyqueen 
> 
> Next chapter: Daenerys V, Tyrion IV, Jon VI, Jaime V.


	14. The Valonqar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a little longer than usual and I'm still not completely happy with it, but I decided to just finally post it. At least it's better than what Dan and Dave wrote (not that that's much of an accomplishment).

**TYRION**

He clutched Sansa’s hand desperately as they made their way from the Maidenvault, like if he did not hold onto her he would lose her again. All of them walked as quickly as possible, not knowing if they might stumble upon a guard or if Cersei would ignite the wildfire and kill them all. Tyrion knew from firsthand experience how powerful and lethal it could be. If Cersei had it around the city as Arya Stark suspected she did – and to Tyrion, it sounded exactly like something his sister would do – then any fire at all could possibly ignite a cache.

They walked across the sept and the Tarly women froze for a moment when they saw the crumpled body lying at the foot of the Stranger’s statue. “Lord Symun?” Talla gasped.

Samwell Tarly gulped. “I killed him.” He said, and when he looked at his mother and sister they had varying degrees of shock on their faces. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

The Tarlys walked ahead of them, Lord Samwell clutching his wife with one hand and his son with the other, while Lady Melessa had her arms draped around Talla, who had finally stopped crying. Tyrion followed along after them as quickly as he could on his stunted legs, Sansa’s hand warm in his own. Every once in a while he found himself stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye. Her dress was ripped, one of her eyes too swollen to open, her lip in the process of healing after being split, and even as she stared forward – now covered by his cloak, the same one she’d made for him at Winterfell – he could not help but notice how hurt she was, and he blamed himself. Sansa had only gone on that ride with Harrold Hardyng because of him. He’d failed to protect her. He felt like a horrible husband.

“This way.” Tyrion instructed the others, and they turned down a darkened corridor, headed for the nearest exit. They could not go out a main gate because there would surely be guards posted there who would recognize them. They were not exactly discreet: a redheaded girl with a bruised face, a noble mother and daughter, a pregnant woman with her son, a plump lord, and a dwarf with a distinctive scar? Even an idiot could realize who they were. Luckily Tyrion knew a backway where they could hopefully slip away and out of the city.

He knew he needed to get a message to Daenerys and Jon. They could not use the dragons. If a single one of the wildfire caches went off, there was the possibility that it might ignite more, and then they would destroy the city they were trying to save. They could be killed. How he was going to get this message to them, however, he did not know. According to the plan they would already be on dragonback by now, flying over the city attempting to weaken the Golden Company or Cersei’s fleet. Tyrion figured either Ser Jorah or Ser Davos were probably his best bets, but he did not know how he was going to be able to find them either. No matter what, he had to try.

They slipped down a tunnel, and then there was the distinct echoing of footsteps coming towards them. It sounded like at least three people. Sansa froze, and Tyrion swore she was shaking. “Behind me.” He whispered. He had already failed to protect her once and would not do so again. Samwell Tarly unsheathed Heartsbane and Tyrion pulled out the dagger he had, wondering what he would do if he had to use it. Lady Gilly lifted her son into her arms while Lady Melessa clutched her daughter tighter.

Sam surged forward into the darkness, wielding his sword with a resounding war cry.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Someone shouted. “Get off of me!”

Sam backed up, and Sandor Clegane stepped out of the darkness. Tyrion could almost hear the collective sigh of relief. The Hound’s left arm was dangling by his side, unnaturally bent like it was broken, and his right hand was pressed against his chest. The hand was as charred as a dead animal roasting on a spit, the blisters oozing and pieces of his skin peeling off. “Listen here,” Clegane spat at Sam. “If I wanted to I could rip you limb from limb even with a broken arm and one good hand, so you better put that sword down.” Sam did as he was told.  

Arya Stark appeared behind him and Sansa moved to embrace her sister, dragging Tyrion along behind her as she refused to let go of his hand. Tyrion could see each and every emotion flicker across Arya’s face as she saw her sister’s injuries. She didn’t say anything, but the Hound was more blunt. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

Sansa pulled out of the hug, her sister’s hand rubbing up and down her arm in an attempt to be soothing. “Cersei and the Mountain,” Sansa said. “That’s what happened.”

“Well, I already killed one of them for ya, little bird.”

Sansa rolled her good eye. “My knight in shining armor.”

“I’m no fucking knight,” the Hound quipped. “And my armor hasn’t been shiny in a very long time.”

Arya Stark continued to stare at her sister even when Sansa returned to Tyrion’s side, and he could see the anger slowly settle into her expression. “The Mountain might be dead, but not Cersei,” She said. “I’m going back. I’m going to kill her.” She grabbed her sword and dagger, intending to turn around and go back the way she came.

“I’ll go with you.” Tyrion found himself saying. Now his concern had melted away into blind rage. Cersei had done nothing but torture him her entire life, and she’d tried to have him killed more than once. Now she’d had his wife beaten and was holding an entire city effectively hostage. In that moment he did not know if there would be anything more pleasing in this world than to see the light go out of Cersei’s eyes.   

Sansa was tugging on his arm, begging him not to be stupid, but before Tyrion and Lady Arya could break away another figure stepped out of the shadows, one Tyrion had not noticed before. “You can’t.” It was Lady Brienne – holding a baby.

Immediately Tyrion froze, unable to look at anything but the child Brienne was holding. The baby was alert and quiet in her arms, looking at everything around him with inquisitive emerald eyes. With his downy golden hair and round pink cheeks, Tyrion thought the boy must have been a splitting image of Jaime when he was a baby. The child seemed perfectly at peace in Lady Brienne’s arms as she held him against her chest, oblivious to the danger and destruction around him as he sucked his thumb.

Tyrion snapped out of his trance when Brienne spoke again. “It’s too dangerous. You need to get the children out of here. I’m going back for Jaime.”

“If it’s too dangerous, how come you get to go back?” Arya protested, at the same time that Tyrion blurted out: “Jaime’s still there?”

Lady Brienne, Arya and the Hound all exchanged wary glances. “He told me to take the boy and go while he stayed with Cersei. She’s…” Brienne trailed off. “I don’t know what she is.”

Tyrion felt Sansa squeeze his hand, but he could not look at her right now. All he could think of was his brother. Jaime was the one person who had made Tyrion’s childhood tolerable. He wasn’t perfect, but Jaime had loved Tyrion when he felt like no one else did. Now he was alone with their murderous sister, in a castle that might be destroyed at any moment.

A part of Tyrion wanted to go after Jaime, to save the brother he loved, but there was a reason why he could not, and that was the child in Brienne’s arms. Jaime wouldn’t want Tyrion to go to him, he would want him to make sure his son was safe. All Tyrion could do was hope that Jaime knew what he was doing. _Please my stupidly brave brother,_ He thought. _Don’t get yourself killed_.

He glanced at Sansa, who was looking at him worriedly through her bruised face. “We all have to go.” He said assuredly. “This castle could go up in flames any moment.”

Brienne of Tarth’s sapphire eyes blazed stubbornly. “Even more reason to go after Jaime – ”

Tyrion cut her off with a look. “Jaime wanted you and the boy safe. That was his wish. If I let anything happen to you, my brother will never forgive me.”

At his words, Brienne’s face softened, and she reluctantly nodded. “Fine, I won't go. At least, not until we can get to the king and queen and know that the wildfire won't be triggered.”

Still, Arya looked uncertain, and Sansa reached out to touch her arm. “Please. I need you.”

Arya looked at her, then glanced back the way she came. Tyrion heard her sigh softly. “All right. Let’s go.”

Tyrion pressed a kiss to the back of Sansa’s hand, while she grabbed her sister. Together with Brienne, the Hound and the Tarlys they headed further down the hallway towards the exit.

All Tyrion could do was hope that they would get a message to Jon and Daenerys in time. If they did not, Jaime was most certainly dead.

* * *

**DAENERYS**

She could see every inch of King’s Landing from Drogon’s back. On the streets, people fled back inside their homes at the sight of the approaching armies, locking their doors and closing their shutters. Daenerys flew Drogon over the Hills of Rhaenys, over Flea Bottom and towards Aegon’s High Hill beyond. As her Unsullied marched towards the direction of the Red Keep, some Dothraki riding down the streets on their horses, Daenerys spotted Cersei’s own army approaching. The Golden Company came down from Aegon’s High Hill into the streets of the city, 10,000 strong in their golden armor. Harry Strickland was riding at the front, on the back of a large elephant, equipped with several weapons: a sword, a bow and arrow, and a dagger. He barked out an order and the men quickly sprung into formation, then charged forward.

The Unsullied immediately moved to meet them. Daenerys searched the streets from any signs of Ser Jorah, but could not find her Lord Commander anywhere. The Unsullied, Dothraki and Golden Company clashed in the middle of the King’s Landing street, while civilians fled inside their homes to avoid the bloodshed. Daenerys flew Drogon lower, a target in her sights. If she wanted to end this battle as soon as possible, she needed to kill the head of the snake. 

She flew at Strickland, and his elephant reared back onto its hind legs. The animal’s tusks came at Drogon, but they hit only the scales of his belly and did no real damage. Drogon roared and tore into the elephant’s head, ripping rough skin from bone. Daenerys looked for Harry Strickland, only to find that the commander was now climbing down the dying elephant’s back, continuing on foot. “Hey!” He yelled. “That was my favorite fucking elephant!” He drew an arrow from his quiver and fired at Daenerys and Drogon.

But Daenerys flew Drogon upwards, avoiding Strickland’s arrows. “Drogon,” She commanded. “ _Dracarys_.” The dragon spewed a great burst of flame at the Golden Company and then Daenerys retreated, the air filling with smoke.

As she flew back towards the Unsullied, she spotted a flash of a white cloak running through the throng, towards her. “ _Khaleesi_!” She could barely make out Ser Jorah’s screams and he waved his arms at her. Daenerys flew lower so she could hear him more clearly. “The dragonfire – the city – don’t use – ”

Before Daenerys could so much as wonder what he meant, there was the sound of a loud explosion behind her. It was so great and so powerful that it was like the whole world trembled in its wake. There was something about it that chilled her to her very core. 

Daenerys looked over her shoulder and saw a great burst of green emanating from where she’d used the dragonfire moments earlier. A sense of dread filled her body. _Wildfire._ She had never seen it before, but she’d heard the stories of its terrible power. It was wildfire which had given her father a sick sense of pleasure as he loomed it like a threat over the entire city, causing Jaime Lannister to drive his sword into his back that fateful day the Targaryen monarchy fell. Now the city was at risk again. If she used any dragonfire, the wildfire would ignite and destroy King’s Landing, taking down everything in its path until all that was left was ash and dust. Cersei would rather be Queen of the Ashes than let the city fall into their hands.

The wildfire was rapidly spreading throughout the street, taking out members of the Golden Company in its path, random homes and merchant carts, and now hurtling towards the Unsullied. Drogon began to rear wildly, crying out at the sight of the rapidly moving wildfire. Daenerys could not remember the last time she’d seen her dragon as panicked as he was now as he tried to get away from the explosive. The dragon flew upwards, moving back and forth unpredictably, and Daenerys tried to regain control but found Drogon was no longer listening to her commands. She could feel her hands slipping from his back, and soon she was dangling off. “Drogon! Drogon, Drogon stop – ” She tried to dig her nails in to maintain her grip, but she could find no purchase, and then she was slipping, slipping, slipping.

And then she was falling. 

Luckily she was not too far above the roof of a house and Daenerys instinctively stuck her hands out to catch herself. She landed on her backside on top of the terracotta roof and her hands roared with the pain of having broken her fall. The wind was knocked out of her and she breathlessly lifted her hands, finding them dangling limply from her wrists with bloody palms, one or both of them surely broken. Her hands hurt terribly, but she had not been willing to take the risk that she might land on her stomach and causes injury – or worse – to one of her unborn babies.

As she tried to regain her breath, Daenerys weakly crawled towards the drain pipe in an attempt to get herself down from the roof. With no choice but to wrap her broken hands around it, she grabbed the drain pipe and shimmied herself back down to the ground little by little, her hands throbbing the entire time and she gritted her teeth from the pain. Once she was back on the streets she stumbled blindly, looking for Drogon. On the streets Unsullied, Dothraki and Golden Company were fighting each other as the wildfire continued to destroy everything in its path. Horses and elephants were dying. The air smelled like burning flesh. “Drogon!” She yelled. “Drogon!”

“ _Khaleesi_!”

Daenerys turned and saw Ser Jorah headed towards her, cutting down the enemies in his path in his attempts to get to her. Before Daenerys could call out to him in reply, she spotted the wildfire hurtling further down the street, in their direction.

Ser Jorah threw his body on top of hers and pushed them both into an alley, just as the wildfire rushed past.

Daenerys landed on her back on the hard ground, Ser Jorah on top of her. Out in the streets the wildfire had finally died, but not after taking out thousands of men and causing debris to fly everywhere. Even from where she lay Daenerys could spot charred remains and severed limbs. “Ser Jorah?” She was startled when she noticed that the Lord Commander was lying lifelessly on top of her, and she pushed him off, onto his back. “Ser Jorah?”

_No, no, no._ Daenerys thought, tears rushing to her eyes. _Oh please, my great bear, do not leave me now._ She placed one of her bleeding hands against his neck, feeling for any signs of life, and she audibly sighed in relief when she felt his heartbeat pulsing against her fingers. “Please, my bear,” She begged. “Please breathe.” With her broken hands she pressed on his chest, not caring how much it hurt her, until she saw Ser Jorah sputter and cough.

The knight opened his eyes slowly. One of his eyebrows was half-singed off from how close he’d gotten to the wildfire’s heat and there was a large, bloody gash across his forehead dripping down his face, but his chest was moving as he breathed. Daenerys could feel the twins start to stir in her womb, as if they too were relieved. “ _Khaleesi_ …” Daenerys grinned and bent down to kiss him on the cheek.

“Oh my friend,” She mumbled, tears in her eyes. “I feared I had lost you. Do not scare me like that again.”

“Never.” Ser Jorah reached from her hands to kiss them, and he frowned when he saw the state they were in. “You are hurt, my queen.”

Daenerys shushed him. “Do not worry about that. All that matters is that we are all alive. Come, take my arm. We’ll go off to Drogon.”

She helped Ser Jorah stand and he threw his arm around her shoulders, Daenerys wrapping her arm around his waist. Her violet eyes scanned the skies for Drogon, but she could see no sight of her dragon. _Where has he gone? Is he hurt?_ “Drogon? Drogon?”

Finally Daenerys caught sight of her great black dragon, but he was not hurt, nor was he attacking the remains of Golden Company. He was flying away. _What is he doing?_ “Drogon!” Daenerys screamed against the cacophony of the battle. “Drogon, to me!”

But the dragon did not respond to her commands, flying off into the skyline until she could not see him at all.

* * *

**JON**

Rhaegal flew low over the Blackwater Bay, the scales of his belly skimming against the dark water. Jon grabbed the spikes on the back of his neck and instructed the dragon to fly further upwards. Rhaegal took off, beating his wings and sending droplets of water flying up towards Jon, waves rippling across the surface.

As Jon flew Rhaegal over the water, he could see the competing fleets of ships. There were only a few ships left that bore the Greyjoy black and gold kraken, including the _Sea Bitch_. After Euron burned the _Black Wind_ , Yara’s new boat was a longship called the _Kraken’s Daughter_ , which was now leading the charge. There were an impressive number of Dornish ships with sails bearing the Martell sigil of a gold spear piercing a red sun on orange. They had names like the _Red Viper_ or _Nymeria’s Star_ or the _Serpent’s Revenge_. All of Euron Greyjoy’s old ships had been reoutfitted by Cersei. Now they bore the Lannister lion sails and had their old names painted over. The _Leviathan_ became the _Lioness_ , the _Lamentation_ the _Lady Joanna_ , and the _Silence_ the _Sweet Cersei_. Jon could not help but shake his head at that one. Somewhere at the bottom of the sea, Euron Greyjoy’s decaying bones were probably stirring at what Cersei had done to his ships.

“Rhaegal,” Jon commanded. “ _Dracarys_.”

The dragon flew over Cersei’s fleet and opened his mouth, spewing a long stream of flame. One by one the _Lioness_ , the _Lady Joanna_ , the _Sweet Cersei_ , and all the rest caught fire, the sails and wood igniting and burning. What Jon could not have predicted however were the bursts of green explosions that went off on the ships’ decks, devouring them in minutes. _Wildfire_. He had heard the stories of Tyrion’s ingenious strategy at the first Battle of the Blackwater. Clearly Cersei had taken a page out of her brother’s playbook. The blasts were so powerful that the water around them rippled and some of the Martell and Greyjoy ships close by were caught in the crossfire. Jon lifted an arm to shield his face and flew Rhaegal higher.

While several of their ships were damaged, the _Kraken’s Daughter_ and the _Red Viper_ continued towards the city undeterred, and the smoking ruins of Cersei’s ships began to fall apart and sink. Jon directed Rhaegal to turn back towards King’s Landing and they flew off, leaving the smoldering fleet behind them.

Searching the skies for signs of Daenerys, Jon could see grey columns of smoke rising from a particular spot in the city, twisting and curling in the air. He could see Drogon barreling towards them, and Jon wondered why Daenerys was flying in this direction and not towards the Red Keep. But then as Drogon came closer, Jon noticed that there was no rider on the dragon’s back, and his heart sank. “Drogon?” The dragon only flew over and past them, Rhaegal roaring and calling to his brother, Jon watching in shock as Drogon disappeared into the horizon. Drogon was Daenerys’s dragon. Why would he fly off without her? _Unless,_ He thought. _Something happened to her…_ The thought was too horrible, but Jon could not push it from his mind. Daenerys lying dead on the streets somewhere, bleeding out on the stones…

He turned back around and gripped Rhaegal tighter, spurring the dragon onwards.

The street leading up towards the Red Keep was destroyed. There was no other way to describe it. Buildings had turned into burnt ruins and half-burnt bodies lined the road, while others were nothing but ash and charred remains. Jon’s eyes scanned for Daenerys, and he hoped that if she were really dead, there would at least be something of her left.

He landed Rhaegal down on a roof, the air thick and grey. “Daenerys?” He screamed desperately into the void. “Daenerys?”

He screamed her name until he was breathless and choking on smoke, and then – faintly – there was the sound of someone screaming his name back to him.

Not daring to hope, Jon drew Longclaw and swung down from the roof, following the source of the noise. Any man who got in his way he cut down as he searched for his wife. “Dany? Where are you?”

“Over here!”

Jon slipped into a secluded alleyway and he audibly exhaled in relief at the sight of Daenerys. She was physically shaking, a weakened Ser Jorah with his head resting on her shoulder as they clutched each other, like they were the only things keeping each other aloft. Daenerys stumbled towards him and Jon pulled her closer, pressing his lips against her forehead. “It’s all right, it’s all right.” When Daenerys pulled away, he caught sight of her hands and his breath hitched. They were limp, the skin entirely ripped off both her palms, leaving behind a bloody mess. “My love, your hands…”

Daenerys shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Ser Jorah is hurt – take us to Rhaegal.” Even now, she was not thinking of herself, and Jon moved to Jorah’s other side, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Why is Drogon flying away?”

Daenerys shook her head as together they led the injured man back towards Rhaegal. “I wish I knew.” Once they cut their way back across the street, Rhaegal bent his head down and Jon gave Daenerys a lift. He grabbed Rhaegal by one of his neck spikes and pulled himself up, reaching for Ser Jorah’s hand.

But Ser Jorah remained frozen in the street, staring off at something. Jon followed his gaze and found Harry Strickland of the Golden Company, Ser Jorah’s old friend from his time as a sellsword, struggling to stay aloft. He was being backed into a corner by a group of Unsullied, collapsing against the wall of a building, clutching his shoulder in pain, blood and soot covering his face. He was dying.

“Ser Jorah!” Daenerys shouted at him. “What are you doing? Get on!”

Ser Jorah either did not hear her, or ignored her as he walked towards Harry. He called something to the Unsullied, who immediately moved out of the way, and stopped in front of Harry, who was now on the ground. Harry stared up at him, most of the Golden Company already dead around him, and he looked like he was in shock. “Cersei…the wildfire…this destruction is her doing?”

“It is.” Jon wondered if Ser Jorah was going to draw his sword. Instead, he extended his head.

Harry looked unsure at first, but then he weakly reached up and clasped Ser Jorah’s hand. “Why are you doing this?”

Jorah lifted him up. “Because,” He said. “Loyalty still means something to me.” Jorah led Harry back towards the dragon, and Harry yelled to the remains of his men, telling them to stand down.

Jon climbed onto Rhaegal’s back behind Daenerys, and Harry Strickland used his good arm to pull himself up the drain pipe. Jon gave him a boost and Harry reached back to grab Jorah, pulling him up on Rhaegal’s back with them.

“Rhaegal,” Jon commanded. “ _Soves_.”  

* * *

**JAIME**

For what felt like a long time they stood there staring at each other, unspeaking. Jaime listened until he could no longer hear the baby’s crying or the sound of Brienne’s footsteps, the noise fading away the further they got from the throne room. _Go, Brienne_. He thought. _Please go and don’t look back_. He knew he would probably never see her again. He hoped she could get the baby safely to Tyrion – his brother would look after his son, of that he had no doubt – and move on, live a long life and forget about him. He hoped she could make it out of the city in time.

He stared at Cersei, sitting perfectly calm on the Iron Throne, her gaze unflinching. “You let them go,” He finally said. “Why?”

Cersei laughed. It was a choked, bitter sound. “You think your whore is going to get out of King’s Landing in time? It’s only a matter of time until this city burns to the ground. If the dragon bitch or her bastard husband use their monsters, the fire will ignite the wildfire I had Qyburn’s little birds place in strategic positions all over this city.”

Jaime looked at her, searching for any sign of the sister he’d once known. Even when Cersei had gone to the edge, even when she’d disgusted him, she had always had her beauty, and now even that had failed her. Now the outside matched the heart within. He had loved her once, but he did not doubt that the little girl he’d grown up with at Casterly Rock, the beautiful queen in a crown of gold whose bed he kept warm at night, and the fierce mother lion who would protect her children with her life, they were all gone. “You’d let us all die? Even our son?”

“It is better that he is dead.” Cersei said, and Jaime could not fathom she actually believed the words she was speaking. “Better dead than in the Dragon Queen’s hands. He is a lion, and lions do not bend their knees. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. I intend to win, or I intend to die.”

Jaime recognized that look in her red eyes. He had only seen it once before. _She’s mad._ Jaime thought. _She has gone absolutely, positively mad_.

Cersei stood up from the Iron Throne and slowly began to walk down the steps towards him. “There’s something beautiful about it – watching the world burn.” She said, a sick smile on her twisted face. “You should’ve seen the Sept of Baelor the day it exploded, Jaime. It was so beautiful. The wildfire…Green, just like our eyes.”

_My eyes._ Jaime thought. Her beautiful green irises had been replaced with bloodshot eyes, bulging from her skull. They were so horrible and yet he could not look away.

Cersei came to stand before him now, her hands resting on his upper arms. “You don’t love her, Jaime. I know you don’t. You belong to me, just as I belong to you. We’ve been together since before we were even born. What you and I have, it’s deeper than brother and sister, or husband and wife – it’s something that nobody else can understand, no one but you and I. We were always meant to die together, just as we were born together. Jaime: my brother, my lover, my soulmate…” She was so close to him now, so close that her face was all he could see. Jaime could feel her breath puff against his lips as she spoke. “Watch the world burn with me.”

Jaime swallowed. _I’m so sorry, Brienne_. “I love you.” He whispered. “I’ve always loved you…”

A grin cracked Cersei’s grotesque face, and then she took his face between her hands so she could pull him down to kiss him.

Their lips met awkwardly – her lips did not even feel like Cersei’s lips anymore, they felt like a stranger’s, a monster’s. Jaime’s hand inched for Widow’s Wail, fastened at his hip, and he felt his fingers clasp around the hilt. He opened his eyes.

Cersei’s were already staring back at him.

Before he could even think, her hand sprang to grab his by the wrist and she yanked it, Widow’s Wail falling from his grasp and skidding across the throne room floor. “What – ” But before he could finish speaking, there was a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach.  

Jaime looked down. He did not see the small dagger concealed in Cersei’s sleeve until it was piercing his gut. She dug the blade in and twisted it deep inside of him, causing Jaime to gasp from pain. When she pulled it out, his hand reached down to touch where she’d stabbed him. When he pulled it away, it was covered in dark red blood.

“You betrayed me, Jaime.” Cersei was saying as she backed away from him, wiping the blood from the knife off on her skirt. “I told you to never do that.” She turned around to walk back towards the Iron Throne.

And in that moment, Jaime suddenly forgot about the pain of his stab wound. All he could think about the woman he’d once loved with all his heart, who he would’ve done anything for, including kill, and how he’d never meant anything to her at all.

He surged forward and shoved Cersei onto the ground, on her back. She landed with a thud against the steps leading up to the Iron Throne and she looked up at him in shock as he held her down with his body. His good hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing, while his golden hand crushed her windpipe. “It seems you’ll get your wish after all.” Jaime said. “Come, sister, let’s die together.”

She tried to fight him, kicking and thrashing under his body, but as he used all the rest of his energy to crush her throat, her face turned every possible color as she struggled for air. She reached one of her arms weakly over her head, reaching for the Iron Throne, but coming up just short. Her lips were moving, mouthing his name. “Jaime…Jaime, please…” But he could not stop, would not stop. Even as Cersei lay dying, she was trying to manipulate him, but he would not fall for it this time. Because he was not killing the twin sister whose foot he had been born holding, or the mischievous green-eyed little girl he’d fallen in love with at Casterly Rock, or the mother of his children. He was killing the monster she became.

And as Cersei took her final breath, all he said was: “The Starks send their regards.”

Even after she stopped breathing, Jaime remained there crouched over her for a few moments longer, just to make sure she was really dead. He pulled his hands away and her throat was now covered in blood, but it was not her own. Slowly he stood up, only realizing now just how weak he was. The world was spinning around him and his knees buckled. He grabbed his side, trying to staunch the blood flow from his wound.

The doors to the throne room burst open, and when he turned there stood Jon and Daenerys Targaryen, looking shocked when they saw Cersei’s dead body lying just short of the throne. Standing behind them were Ser Jorah Mormont, a cluster of Unsullied, and – of all people – Harry Strickland of the Golden Company. But Jaime only had eyes for one person. “Brienne…”

She walked towards him and he stumbled into her arms, collapsing from blood loss and exhaustion. “Jaime?” She looked down and placed her hand on top of his. When she pulled it back it was sticky with blood. “Oh gods Jaime, what has she done to you?”

“My son…is he…is the city…?”

“Safe,” Brienne assured him. “They’re all safe.”

“You came back…” He wheezed. “You came back for me…”

“Of course I did.”

He only realized that the king was there when Jon Snow knelt beside him, pressing his hands down to put pressure on his wound. “Keep your eyes open, my lord. Help is coming.” Queen Daenerys and Jorah Mormont walked up to the Iron Throne and Mormont knelt down over Cersei’s body, placing his fingers on her neck to feel for a pulse.

“She’s dead, Your Graces.”

Jaime’s eyes felt unbearably heavy. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” He said to Jon. “But I do not know if I can obey your royal command.”

Brienne was crying. “Jaime, don’t say that. You’ll…you’ll be fine…”

He laughed weakly. “Always my stupid, stubborn wench. I’m sorry, Brienne.”

Jaime stared up at her, trying to focus on her face as the world spun around him. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, and even though he was the one who had been stabbed, he wanted to comfort her. _I always wanted to die in the arms of the woman I love._ He wanted to say, but he was too weak. All he could do was shudder for breath as Brienne sobbed his name, begging him to stay with her.

Her face was the last thing he saw before the darkness enveloped him in its embrace.


	15. Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime finds out his fate; Sansa reassures Tyrion; Gendry and Arya make plans; Daenerys and Jon receive a promise for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who were mourning Jaime's "death" in the comments last chapter...I never explicitly said he was dead, did I? Note this fic is tagged "Angst with a Happy Ending", "Minor Character Death", and "Eventual Happy Ending". Ideally in the show I would've liked Jaime to have killed Cersei and died in Brienne's arms just like that, but this is a fanfiction, so his story ain't ending right here folks. But I enjoyed seeing your emotional responses. I felt like GRRM as I scrolled through my comments, enjoying the misery I had caused...Mwah ha-ha. 
> 
> In all seriousness, enjoy the chapter.

  **JAIME**

It could’ve been hours, days or weeks for all he knew by the time he finally regained consciousness. Jaime groaned, feeling a shooting pain in his stomach. His eyes felt so heavy he did not know if he’d be able to open them, and he longed to lie back and die.

“Jaime?” Through the darkness someone was calling his name. It sounded far away at first, but then as he began to stir, he could hear the voice more clearly. “Jaime!”

_Wench._

He pried open his tired eyes and at first he could not see, his vision slowly coming into focus. He was lying in a bed somewhere, and his eyes fixated on Brienne’s worried face. She was sitting by his bed, holding his hand in both of hers. “Brienne…”

She mumbled something in relief and lifted his hand to her lips to kiss it. “You scared me. I thought you were gone.”

He gave her a weak attempt at a smirk. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, wench.” He turned his head and realized that he was in a room of the Red Keep. _So Cersei didn’t burn it all down then_. His shirt was off and he had a bandage wrapped across his torso, keeping his stab wound tightly packed. The events of the throne room came crashing back in a flood of memory. “My son…where is my son?”

“He is all right. His wet nurse has him.” Immediately, Jaime tried to prop himself up in bed, surprising Brienne. “What are you doing?”  

“Getting up.” He pulled off the blankets and grunted when he sat up, as it caused pain to flare up in his side again. That didn’t matter though, he could not just lie here. He needed to see his son with his own two eyes and know he was okay. “I need to see him now.”

When she saw that there would be no persuading him, Brienne sighed and went to the door, calling for someone in the hallway to bring Lord Lannister his son. Then she came back as Jaime was struggling to stand up on his stiff legs and gave him a hand. “Here, let me.”

Brienne pulled his missing shirt off from the back of a chair and helped his arms through the sleeves. “Thank you.” Before Jaime could start on his buttons, Brienne was doing it for him, and they were so close now their heads brushed. They both looked up at the same moment, staring into the other’s eyes.

“Jaime…” Brienne wet her lips, looking nervous. “In the throne room, when you said I love you…you were speaking to the baby and only the baby, right?”

Jaime frowned. He remembered that moment of desperation, how he’d looked into Brienne’s eyes thinking it was the last time he’d ever see her. How glad he was he’d been wrong. He’d been suspecting something for a while, but now he was absolutely certain of it: he was in love with Brienne, and he could not live without her.

He cupped her face and pulled her in, their lips meeting. Even after the kiss, he kept his forehead pressed against hers for a while longer, savoring the moment. “Now,” He whispered. “Does that answer your question?”

He saw Brienne smile. “Yes.”  

The door opened and they instinctively jumped apart. Brienne backed away, her cheeks turning red, and Jaime moved towards the window, his shirt still half-unbuttoned. “Leave it open.” He spun around, surprised by the sound of Queen Daenerys’s voice. She was standing in the open doorway, and she raised an eyebrow at him. Jaime noticed that her hands and wrists had been bandaged under the billowing sleeves of her gown and he wondered what had befallen her. “Skin to skin contact is good for babies.”

Jaime gulped, only able to focus on the baby she was holding. She had him in a shoulder hold, his face obscured from Jaime’s view. His heart flipped. The Mother of Dragons tolerated him well enough, but he had broken his vows to her father and he did not know if she was the type to let him go unpunished. He did not care if he was banished to Casterly Rock for the rest of his days, but what if the queen ordered for his son to be fostered somewhere far away where Jaime would never get to see him? He could not stand the thought of his son being taken away from him. This was his chance to finally be a father to one of his children. “What are they saying about me out there?”

“From what I hear, the smallfolk are calling you the Queenslayer.”

Jaime frowned. “So they hate me as much as ever then?” _I saved them all from the Mad King and I was reviled for it._ He thought. _Why should saving them from the Mad Queen be any different?_

“Actually,” Brienne said. “They’re calling you a hero.”

“…What?” Even though he’d heard her perfectly well the first time, this news took a moment to process.

Queen Daenerys smiled, and the baby gurgled in her arms. “A lovely boy. Would you like to hold him?”

The baby was passed gently into Jaime’s arms and he could scarcely breathe. Sleepy green eyes met his as the boy stared up at him in quiet fascination. All Jaime could think was _perfect_ as he focused all his attention on memorizing his infant son’s face. His chubby cheeks, rosebud lips, his wisps of golden hair…Jaime had fathered three children before and he’d never been allowed to hold any of them like this, never been able to think of them as his own. He still half-felt as if he were dreaming. Perhaps he was really asleep back at camp right now, the entire battle having been a dream, or perhaps he’d died with Cersei, because surely he couldn’t be here, holding his son in his arms after everything.

But the infant in his arms was real. Jaime could feel the weight of him and the boy mewled softly as his eyes shut and he drifted off to sleep. Jaime’s heart swelled and he dropped a gentle kiss to the baby’s head. “I love you, my son.” He whispered so that no one else could hear. It was something he’d never been allowed to say to Joffrey or Tommen.

Jaime knew that Cersei had decided to call the boy ‘Tywin’, but that was wrong, all wrong. It was a name that commanded fear – Jaime wanted his son’s name to command respect. _I could name him for Arthur Dayne,_ He thought. _The man who taught me what it is to be a knight._ But ‘Arthur Lannister’ just didn’t flow. There was Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, who Jaime had also greatly respected, but he didn’t like the name ‘Gerold’ very much either. He considered some Lannister names – _Kevan, Tygett, Loreon, Stafford, Tytos_ – and found them all unsatisfactory.

He only remembered there were other people in the room when Queen Daenerys spoke again. “You did an undeniably heroic thing, my lord. You saved the entire city when you killed the Mad Queen.”

“It was nothing, Your Grace.” In truth, when he’d killed the Mad King many years ago, he’d done it to save the city. But this time, he hadn’t been thinking about the half a million people who lived in King’s Landing. He’d only been thinking about Brienne and his son.

“It was most certainly not nothing.” Queen Daenerys paused, frowning. “However, I will say you generated quite a bit of controversy as well. In the time you’ve been unconscious, many lords and ladies have come before my husband and I with suggestions about what we should do with you. Half of them want us to reward you, and half of them want us to kill you.”

“ _Kill him_?” Brienne repeated, and Jaime gave her a look to silence her. If he was to die, he did not wanting her losing her head on his behalf.

“We’re not going to do that, Lady Brienne.” The queen assured her. She looked back at Jaime. “Being a king or a queen comes with responsibilities, and a true knight should not be expected to give his monarch blind loyalty if that monarch is doing evil. A monarch needs to treat his or her subjects fairly and justly, to act in their best interests instead of their own, and if that social contract is broken then he or she no longer deserves the crown upon their head. I do not blame you for what you did to Cersei Lannister or my father – Jon and I will be reorganizing the Crownsguard to ensure that a monarch is not allowed to abuse their power without consequences. But there is, however, the attempted murder of my husband’s late brother Lord Brandon Stark to answer for. The northern lords are adamant that you must be held accountable for that crime.”

Jaime looked down. “I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit, Your Grace.”

“Here is our decision: since Lord Tyrion has forsaken his claim to Casterly Rock to marry my goodsister, my husband and I will officially name you Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West, so that you may continue your line. As for your son, Tywin Waters – ”

At that moment, the baby began to stir and Jaime shifted him into a shoulder hold, bouncing the baby gently until he quieted and went back to sleep, his head burrowing against Jaime’s neck. It was then that Jaime had a realization about exactly what it was he wanted to call him. “Barristan, Your Grace.” He corrected. “His name is Barristan.”

He swore Daenerys smiled then. “My apologies. Your son _Barristan_ will be legitimized as a Lannister and declared your rightful heir. That is, if you agree to our terms.”

“Your mercy is great, Your Grace, and more than I deserve.”

“First, you and all your sworn bannerman must denounce your late sister, Cersei Lannister, as a traitor and pledge your loyalty to my husband and I. You must also swear to recognize our firstborn child as our successor in the event of both our deaths, regardless of its gender. You should all adopt genderblind succession laws in your own families as well – though I will not insist on you displacing any male heir currently in line to inherit, the laws of Westeros shall no longer discriminate based on gender. Anyone who refuses to comply will be declared a traitor and is susceptible to imprisonment or death. Once you have done this, you will leave for Casterly Rock accompanied by two members of my Unsullied, and you shall remain there under house arrest for three years, in penance for your crime. During those three years, you may not leave the confines of your home without the explicit permission of the crown. The length of this house arrest is susceptible to change based on your behavior henceforth.”

“A fair condition, Your Grace.” 

“Next,” She continued. “In exchange for his legitimization, your son Barristan Lannister will be fostered at Winterfell when he is old enough, under the tutelage of your brother Lord Tyrion and Lady Stark so that he may learn how to rule fairly and respect the crown. When it comes time for him to wed, Lord Tyrion will arrange a suitable match for him with a noblewoman whose family has proven its loyalty to Houses Stark and Targaryen. As for our last condition, if you Lord Lannister, ever decide that you wish to take a wife yourself, the match must be approved by the king and myself before the two of you are wed. Do you accept these terms?”

Jaime glanced first at Brienne, her blue eyes meeting his green ones. She nodded slightly in encouragement. Then, he turned to the infant in his arms, Barristan now happily suckling on his knuckles, and kissed the top of his head. _This,_ Jaime thought. _Is my second chance._

“I accept them, Your Grace. Long live the king and queen.”

~

There was only one more test that he needed to pass.

Meeting Brienne’s father.

After the queen left them, Barristan seemed hungry and so he was given off to a wet nurse. “My, umm,” Brienne said to Jaime nervously. “My father says he would like to meet you. I understand if you do not want…”

Jaime cut her off. “No. No, it would be a pleasure to meet him.”

Lord Selwyn was waiting for them by the water, staring out at Blackwater Bay as they approached. “It is quite a sight to see,” He mused. “Martell and Greyjoy fleets, armies of Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons, Arryns, and Tullys, even Unsullied soldiers and Dothraki horselords, all fighting together…I do not know if we will ever see the likes of this again.” Lord Selwyn turned around and Jaime felt a sudden rush of nerves. Lord Selwyn was even taller than both him and Brienne, and his blue eyes scanned Jaime up and down critically. “Jaime Lannister,” He said. “I have heard much about you.”

The man continued to examine him in silence for several moments and Jaime had no idea what he was thinking, Selwyn Tarth’s neutral facial expression giving little away. Jaime nervously wondered what unseemly rumors about him the man had heard, and when Lord Selwyn grabbed his arm, he wondered if he was about to be thrown on the ground or punched in the gut.

But Lord Selwyn did neither of those things. He took Jaime’s hand and shook it firmly. “My daughter told me how you saved her life and her virtue. That was a very honorable thing to do and I thank you. I believe I am in your debt, my lord.”

Once Jaime got over his shock, he shook his head. “That is not necessary. Brienne was worth it all.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Brienne looked relieved.

The older man frowned and patted his pockets. “Brienne, my dear, I seem to have misplaced my spectacles. Do you mind going back up to my chambers to look for them? You’re younger and more spry than I am.”

Brienne looked from Jaime to her father. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” She turned and walked back up towards the keep, and when she was gone Jaime saw a sly smile cross Lord Selwyn’s face.

The Evenstar reached into a pocket in the lining of his cloak, and retrieved a pair of spectacles. “She’ll be looking for a little while,” He said. “Considering I have them right here. That’ll give us two some time to talk.”

Jaime couldn’t help but laugh, but he was still confused. “Is there something you wish to say to me that couldn’t be said in front of Brienne?”

Lord Selwyn was silent for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. “Lord Jaime, I trust you know that I love my daughter a great deal. She is special to me, and she has been through quite a lot in her life. The loss of her mother and all three of her siblings, a few failed betrothals…you can understand that I want her to be happy?”

“Of course,” Jaime replied. “I want the same for her as well.”

“And you must know, my lord, that my daughter is fond of you. It’s plain to see. And it is my deepest wish that Brienne may find someone who will take care of her, treat her honorably, as she is ought to be treated – ”

Jaime frowned when he realized what the man was getting at. “Lord Tarth…earlier you said you felt you were in my debt.”

“I did indeed.”

“Well…may I ask you simply to hear me out on one matter?”

Selwyn Tarth looked intrigued. “Certainly.”

“My lord…” Jaime suddenly felt nervous. “Your daughter is an extraordinary person. She’s the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. When I’m with Brienne, I’m the happiest I’ve been – well, in my whole life I think. And she makes me want to be a better person. I know I’m not what you had in mind for her, and I know she probably deserves better, but I swear I will spend the rest of my life trying to be someone who’s worthy of her. So, what I’m saying is…I’d very much like to marry Brienne. But if I’m going to ask her to be my wife, then I’d like to have your blessing. I know how much Brienne values your opinion, and I value her.”

After Jaime finished, Lord Selwyn stared at him in silence for a long moment, and then he surprised Jaime by laughing. “Well, this was an easier conversation than I expected!”

Jaime was overcome by a rush of confusion – and a rush of hope. “You…but I thought you were trying to tell me to stay away from Brienne?”

“Nonsense!” The Lord of Evenfall Hall laughed. “My daughter is in love with you, Lord Jaime, I could tell from the first time she mentioned you in her letters. I wanted to meet you here today to make sure you weren’t going to break her heart. You love my daughter, correct?”

Jaime did not hesitate in his answer. “With all of my heart.”

“And you would never treat her with disrespect, or try to change her?”

“Never.”

Lord Selwyn grinned and laughed again. “Well, this is…this is marvelous! The two of you will have to come to Tarth for part of the year, as Brienne is still my only heir – don’t worry, you can bring your boy too. I know Brienne is very fond of him. Oh _finally_ there may be grandchildren! You know if Brienne doesn’t have any children of her own, then after she dies my cousin _Howard_ will get Tarth, and he is a foolish, lackwit son of a – ”

“So does that mean…?”

“Yes.” Lord Selwyn replied with enthusiasm. “Yes, you have my blessing. If Brienne will have you, I should be very pleased to call you my son-in-law.”

When Brienne returned empty-handed a few moments later, Jaime and Lord Selwyn had moved closer to the water, talking nonchalantly about the ships and the winter weather. The Evenstar turned to look at his daughter and forced a smile. “Ahh, I’m sorry my dear! My spectacles were in my pocket the whole time. Forgive me, it seems I’m getting old – I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached, you know…”

* * *

**SANSA**

She sank deeper into the bathtub, sighing in contentment as the hot water washed over her aching body. She’d dismissed her handmaids and the servants, wanting to be alone. As she scrubbed her body with soap, Sansa stared at the bruises on her arms, some still bright purple, others fading to yellow.

Her face and body were bruised, her lip sore, and her eye black, but she was alive. Sansa leaned back, allowing her red hair to be submerged under the soapy water, and stared up at the ceiling in the Tower of the Hand. She had stared up at these same ceilings at night as a girl when her father was the Hand, when all she’d cared about was if she was going to marry Joffrey or if Arya was going to do something Sansa perceived as embarrassing. It felt like a lifetime ago, and she suddenly felt chilled even in the hot bathwater.

 _But I won._ She had to remind herself. The people who had hurt her were dead. Her brother was on his rightful throne. So many people she loved had died because they’d tried to play the game of thrones and lost, but she was here, living despite it all. Sansa could not help but smile through her aching face. Who would’ve thought that little girl she once was would become the woman here now?

The door opened and she bolted upright in the tub, Tyrion pausing in the doorway. He stood there for a second staring at her, not saying anything, and Sansa was suddenly conscious of her bare chest bobbing in the water. Almost instinctively she moved to cover herself, before remembering that there was no need to. “I’m sorry, my lady. I can leave – ”

“There is no need. Just give me a moment.” She stood up and rung out her hair, her naked body dripping as she climbed out of the tub to dry herself off. Her dress was folded on the back of the chair and she slipped it right over her head, not bothering with smallclothes for the moment. Her bare feet padded against the floor and she left a trail of water droplets behind her. “I heard your brother woke up this morning. That’s wonderful news.”

“He did.” When she turned around, Tyrion was sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. She had expected him to look happier at this news, but there was evidently something that was still weighing heavily on him.

With a frown, Sansa crossed the room to kneel before him, placing her hands gently on his knees. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing – ” Tyrion began to say, but Sansa did not let him finish.

“I know that’s not true. I can see it written all over your face.” Tyrion gulped, unable to meet her eyes. Whatever it was, he did not want to tell her. “Tyrion, we won. We’re alive, your brother’s alive, and my family…There is nothing to be upset about. Everything is going to be all right. We can live in peace.”

Tyrion said nothing for a moment, then cautiously looked up to meet her gaze. His eyes were profoundly sad. “We don’t have to do this you know.”

“Do what?”

“ _This_.” He waved his hand about the room. “There is no need for you to have a political marriage anymore. We could have this annulled. No one would blame you.”

Sansa reeled just as she had when the Mountain punched her in the face. “What? Why would you say that?” If her lip were not busted, she would’ve bitten it, suddenly feeling insecure. “Do you not want to be with me?”

When she said that, Tyrion shook his head immediately. “That’s not it.” His hands reached up to gently cup her face, one of his thumbs stroking her cheek. “I love you, and it kills me knowing that I didn’t protect you. I haven’t been a good husband. You could have any man in Westeros – perhaps in all the world – and yet you’re stuck with me. I fear that someday you’ll wake up and resent me for all the things I can’t give you.”

“I don’t want any other man,” Sansa insisted. “I want you.”

“You were going to marry Harrold Hardyng. You could’ve been happy with him.”  

“Only because I thought you didn’t love me back!” When Sansa saw that he was still full of self-doubt, she scooted closer and pressed her chin against his knees, looking up at him. “When I decided to marry Harrold Hardyng, I did it because I wanted to have a life when this was all over: a husband, a home, children of my own. But I’ve realized that I don’t just want a husband and children – I only want a husband if he’s you, Tyrion, and I want a home we can share together, and I want children who will have you as their father. I love you. I want a life with you. I know we’ll always be safe with each other.”

Still, Tyrion hesitated. “You say you want children but...wouldn’t it bother you? If our children were like me?”

“Well I would hope they’re like us both. I’m not making them myself you know.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sansa paused when she realized what he was getting at. If she were being completely honest, there was a time when the thought of having a dwarf child would’ve been repulsive to her. Now she was ashamed to have ever felt that way. It was superficial and wrong. “There are so many more important things in this world than looks. I want my children to have your mind, your heart, your sharp wit.” Tyrion gave her a small smile at that. “And if they happen to be dwarves as well, I would not treat them any differently because of it. Of course they’ll have some difficulties, I won’t lie about that, but it wouldn’t bother me. We all have our own hardships we have to overcome, and I’d love them regardless. Because that’s what family does and you’re my family now Tyrion Lannister, whether you like it or not.”

At her words, Tyrion’s eyes softened. “You’re right. Forgive me for being an idiot. I love you, you know.”

“You are many things, Tyrion Lannister, but an idiot is not one of them. And I know, I love you too.” Sansa smiled. “Kiss me.”

Tyrion’s eyes flicked to her lips. “Won’t that hurt?”

“It’ll be worth it.”  

Their lips melted together and Sansa felt Tyrion’s arms snake around her waist, lifting her up. Their lips not detaching, Sansa climbed up on the bed and they laid down side by side, foreheads touching as she curled up next to him.

Tyrion pushed some of her damp hair behind her ear. It would probably dry sticking up, but in the moment Sansa did not care. “Your hair.”

“What?”

“Your hair,” Tyrion repeated. “I hope our hypothetical future children have your hair. At least one of them. And your determination. You’re the strongest woman I know.”

Sansa grinned, and kissed him again. “I love you.” She said again. She did not know if she could say it enough. She loved him.  

And even if he forgot that sometimes, she would always be there to remind him.

* * *

**GENDRY**

The raven arrived promptly, with the letter from Bella attached to its left leg. He’d left his second eldest sister behind to watch Storm’s End during the taking of King’s Landing, Mya being too stubborn to agree to stay with her, and he recognized the handwriting as that of Ser Gilbert, the castellan. Gendry’s eyes scanned the page, reading the words he had transcribed, and found Bella’s assurance everything at Storm’s End was perfectly well.

_You seem to be a very popular man, little brother. For all of the lords and ladies have come to see you: Bolling, Caron, Errol, Grandison…I’ve been doing my best to entertain them, but I do hope you and Mya will be back very soon, because if I have to listen to Corlys Rogers talk about fishing or feel Philip Foote’s clammy hand try to grab my shoulder for much longer, I might have use of your warhammer. Luckily I have my maid to keep me company, and I think we’re going to be good friends. We have a wager about which one of these men has the least amount of teeth. My coin’s on Estermont._

_All my love,_

_Your sister Bella_

Gendry chuckled, and reminded himself to write her back later. As much as he wanted to return to Storm’s End, he knew they ought to stay until the coronation, but perhaps Bella would like to come down for that. She seemed like she might get a kick out of the pageantry of the whole thing. Tucking the letter into his pocket, he left the rookery and headed back towards the apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast where they’d been roomed.

The Red Keep had been bustling with excitement these past couple days as everyone came to swear their allegiance to the new king and queen, and those who refused to bend the knee were summoned for judgment. There were not many who refused though. Even among her own bannermen, Cersei Lannister had been feared, but not very well-liked. They were not unwilling to disavow her if that meant they could keep their lands and titles – and heads.

Gendry still felt strange being in the castle, like this was all some elaborate dream he’d conjured up and soon he would awaken back on the Street of Steel. He’d spent his entire childhood staring up at this place and never thought that he would step foot inside of it, especially as a lord.

In the courtyard he found his wife, the Hound, and Arya’s little handmaiden Elinda, who’d eschewed her dress in favor of a tunic and breeches much like Arya’s own. Whereas handmaidens usually brushed their lady’s hair or picked out their dresses or made their bed, it seemed Arya was the one who was influencing Elinda. The latter was clutching a wooden sword in her hands and the Hound was doing the same, looking grumpy. “This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Arya snapped back. She turned to Elinda. “Go on, now. The Hound’s not as scary as he looks. He’s really a softie, deep down.”

“I am not!”  

Elinda tilted her head to the side. “Why is your face like that?” Only a child would ask the question so bluntly.

“You want to know why?” the Hound grumbled. “Because my brother shoved my face into a fucking fire when I was younger than you, that’s why! Best not to ask me questions or I’ll show you how he did it, all right?”

Arya frowned. “Sandor!”

“What?”

An amused smile on his face, Gendry cleared his throat to indicate his presence, and they all turned around to look at him. “My lord!” Elinda said, beaming. “My lady is going to teach me how to fight, so I can be tough like her!”  

“You’re already tough, Elinda.” Arya assured her, before walking over to Gendry. She pointed at the Hound. “You have a go with her, and play nice! When you’re done come upstairs so the maester can change the bandages on your hand.”

“Why are you telling me what to do?” the Hound grumbled. “You’re not my fucking mother!”

“Listen to me, you old grump, or I swear I’ll burn your other hand!”

The Hound rolled his eyes at her, but voiced no more objections.

Up in their chambers were Mya, Selmy, Dondarrion and Buckler. A maester was there to change the bandages on Selmy’s face, from a cut he’d received in battle. “Where’s Tarth?” Gendry asked.

“Talking to Lord Lannister,” Borros Dondarrion said with a chortle. “I don’t envy him. I suspect he’s a dead man walking.”

“Lannister could probably take Tarth,” Ser Brus Buckler said, taking a swig of some type of alcohol. “Even if he’s only got one hand.”

Dondarrion eyed him. “Really? I’d bet my coin on Tarth any day. He may be older than us, but he’s scary when he wants to be, and clever as hell.”

“Fine – bet you a golden dragon, then?” The two men shook on it.

“You look like you need a hand to hold, m’lord.” Mya said meanwhile to Arstan Selmy, who had sustained a long cut from his forehead to under his right eye. The maester had removed the bandages and was going to stitch it up. Mya extended her hand to Selmy, who took it gratefully.

“Thank you, my lady. When I’m all better, we’ll have to go for another ride together. Perhaps this time I’ll finally beat you in our race to the river.”

“Won’t let me win, you mean?”

“I didn’t let you win, my lady. You’re just a far superior rider than I.”

“Hold still,” The maester said to Selmy. “This will hurt, and it might leave a scar…”

Selmy made a weak attempt at a smile. “That’s all right. Perhaps it will make me look rugged and tough.”

Mya laughed. “I hear ladies like rugged and tough men.”

Selmy did not say anything for a moment. “Do they now?” He was smiling up at Mya, who blushed in return. Gendry never saw Mya blush except when she was around Selmy.

“That’s what I hear, anyway.” Mya said. “Ser Brus, pass that bottle would you?”

Buckler handed it to her, and Mya gave it to Selmy to dull his pain. “I can attest from personal experience that ladies like men with scars.” Buckler rolled up his sleeve. “This one? From a Kingsguard at the Blackwater. And that one there? From a band of outlaws in the Dornish marches.”

Gendry pointed at a scar on his elbow. “What’s that one from?”

“Oh, that? My brother stabbed me.” Gendry could feel his face blanch at that.

Dondarrion rolled his eyes. “Every time he drinks, he rehashes these same old stories. Just tell him he’s the best so we can move on.”

Arya smirked. “I’ve got you beat. I have a pretty nasty scar on my abdomen.”

“And how’d a lady like you get that?” Ser Brus asked.

Arya’s voice was perfectly nonchalant as she answered. “Some bitch tried to kill me. She’s dead now.”

The other men stared at her for a moment, and then they all laughed. “You know, my lady,” Ser Brus said. “I’m starting to like you a great deal.”

After a little while the Hound and Elinda came upstairs, Elinda practically jumping up and down from excitement. The Hound resigned himself to being looked over by the maester, after only minimal cajoling from Arya and cursing from him. Elinda talked animatedly about what the Hound had taught her, and Gendry that Arya was right – perhaps the Hound really _was_ a softie deep down after all.

An hour or so later they were finally left alone: Mya and Selmy went for another one of their rides, Buckler and Dondarrion went in search of some better liquor, Elinda was dismissed, and the Hound stalked off with a grumbled goodbye. “Finally,” Arya sighed, collapsing onto the bed. “We haven’t had a moment alone together in at least a day. Come, lie down with me for a few moments.”

Gendry did as he was told, lying down next to her on his side, his head propped up so he could look at her. “So, did the Hound say anything about your offer to come to Storm’s End?”

“He still says no,” Arya answered. “But I’m determined to change his mind.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m going to constantly badger him until he’s so annoyed that he has no choice but to give in.”

“Well, he’s always welcome, if that’s what you want.” Gendry paused. “Edric came up from Starfall with his betrothed. Have you talked to him?” He’d run into Beric Dondarrion’s former squire in the courtyard that morning. Even with his beautiful Dornish fiancée on his arm, Ned’s eyes had lit up when he asked how Arya was, and Gendry knew that the Lord of Starfall’s former crush had never truly died. As petty as it sounded, Gendry had not been able to help himself when he responded “married to me”.

“Edric Dayne? I didn’t know Ned was here, I’ll have to say hello.” Arya turned to him, noticing the disgruntled look on his face. “Come on Gendry, it’s been years. Why don’t you like Ned? He’s nice.”

“Of course _you_ would think he’s nice. He likes you too much for my liking.”

“Ned is not in love with me, stupid. You said it yourself, he’s betrothed.”

“I’m telling you, he is. Anyone with eyes can see he’s mad for you.”

Arya lifted her head, smiling at him. “Is he now? I hadn’t noticed.”

It was impossible to be annoyed when she was looking at him like that, and now he really did feel stupid. Gendry reached over to cup Arya’s face and pull her in for a kiss, but she grabbed him first, pulling him down on top of her to kiss her deeply. “We should probably get going,” He said, knowing where this was headed. “Court will start soon.”

“They’ll go on without us.” Arya shoved him down onto his back and swung her leg over to straddle his lap. “I told you when you married me, Gendry Baratheon, that I’m not a very good lady.”

Gendry wasn’t sure he agreed with that. He saw how easily command came to Arya, and what a natural leader she was, even if she didn’t realize it. Tarth, Buckler, Dondarrion and Selmy already respected her, and he did not doubt the other lords would too. The way she had endeared Elinda towards her in such a short time showcased how much she cared about people, and her relationship with the Hound – though still somewhat puzzling to him – was sweet in its own, strange way. But before Gendry could tell Arya any of this, she captured his lips, and the kiss was enough to make him forget everything else.

“Perhaps when this is all over,” He said. “We can get away. Go to Essos, just like we talked about. I want you to myself for a little while longer.”

Arya’s eyes sparkled with delight. “That sounds wonderful! Qohor is renowned for its smiths, I think you’d like it there. We can drink pear brandy in Tyrosh, and go swimming in the waters of Lys…”

“I never learned how to swim.”

“Well, I’ll teach you.” Arya’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. “And I need to go to Braavos. I have to return the faces to Jaqen.”

Gendry frowned, and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because you worked hard for them. It was important to you.”

Arya paused, and shook her head. “I’m not upset. How can I be? I don’t need them anymore.”

Her little smile then was so endearing, and Gendry knew without a doubt that everything he needed was right here in this bed. “I love you, Arya Stark.”

His wife bent down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s Arya Stark Baratheon to you, and don’t you ever forget it.”

* * *

**DAENERYS**

The throne room was packed tight with people, as representatives from each of the kingdoms stood about: Sansa and Tyrion as Lady and Lord of Winterfell, Edmure Tully from the Riverlands, Elia Sand and her sisters from Dorne. Gendry and Arya slipped in several minutes late and quietly made their way towards Ser Davos. Though Brienne was technically also a Stormlander by birth, she stood a few feet away, holding Jaime Lannister’s son. The boy gurgled and reached a hand up to grab a fistful of her hair.

The lord in question knelt down before them. Daenerys and Jon sat a few feet short of the Iron Throne, in two ornate wooden chairs that had been brought in from another room. They would have two new thrones built in time, where they could rule side-by-side. Ser Jorah as Lord Commander stood loyally on Daenerys’s other side, while Missandei and her handmaidens were clustered at the side of the dais. Daenerys fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat – the Targaryen red dress she was wearing was a hefty velvet and the black shoulder pads weighed heavily on her, while her two bandaged hands were pressed limply in her lap. If she moved them too quickly, it would cause pain to flare up and down both her arms. But she was alive and she maintained her queenly composure, needing to be a beacon of strength, and the twins were moving around in her womb, perfectly well even after the battle. That was all that mattered. If only she knew where Drogon was…

Jaime Lannister drew Widow’s Wail and placed it at Dany and Jon’s feet, bowing his head. “Your Graces,” As he spoke, the people who had gathered to watch from the gallery began to chatter excitedly, with murmurs of _it’s the Queenslayer!_ or _that’s him, he’s the savior of the city_! Jon had to raise a hand, gesturing for them to be quiet, and a hush fell over them all as Jaime continued to speak. “I humbly ask your forgiveness for my previous crimes, and accept whatever punishment you deem fit. I offer you my sword until the end of my days, as a sign of my loyalty henceforth. I throw myself at the mercy of Your Graces.”

“My husband and I accept your oath, my lord,” Daenerys responded. “And applaud you for your heroic actions in the Battle of King’s Landing. You shall be allowed to return to Casterly Rock, in order to further the line of your ancient and noble house.”

“I thank you, Your Graces.” The formalities over with, Jaime slipped back into place and Brienne handed the baby back to him. Jaime smiled at her, and Daenerys watched them for a moment. She had told Lord Jaime as a part of his pardon that he would need permission from her and Jon if he ever wished to wed, and if that look meant what she thought it did, perhaps that request would be issued sooner than she’d previously thought.

She turned back to the matter at hand when two young men were brought before them. This was the first time Daenerys had laid eyes on the late Lord Trant’s sons, and they looked younger than she had imagined. The elder one, Boremund, was a pimply-faced lad of fourteen, who could not even grow a proper beard yet. The younger one, Richard, was a baby-faced child of no more than eleven. The herald announced them, and across the room Arya’s little attendant Elinda clutched her mistress’s leg at the sight of her brothers.

“Lord Boremund,” Jon said in a strong, kingly voice. “Lord Richard. You are brought before us today because you assisted your late father, Lord Manfred Trant, in his flight after the Battle of Storm’s End. Do you have any explanation as to why you did this?”

“We do, Your Grace,” Boremund Trant may have been young, but he spoke clearly and calmly. His brother on the other hand cowered in fear, and Daenerys could see him casting furtive glances at the throne behind her back. “We know our father was guilty of treason, and the gods saw that he paid with his life. We fled with our father not out of disrespect for you, my king, the queen or Lord Baratheon, but because he was our father and these were his orders. A son should always obey his lord father, whether he likes it or not.”

Daenerys nodded her head. Though the boy was young, he was not stupid. “You speak truly, my lord. But you are the head of your house now. Do you swear here before these witnesses to honor House Baratheon as your rightful liege lord, and House Targaryen as your rightful monarchs?”

“We do swear it, my queen.”

“Very well then,” Jon said. “Of course, there must be actions for your father’s treasons. You will retain all your lands, but as of now, House Trant shall only be landed knights. If you maintain your oath of allegiance, you may earn your lordship back in time.”

“You are fair and just, Your Graces. Thank you.” Before her brother could finish getting his words out, young Elinda broke away and raced across the room to embrace them. Young Richard was hugging her back in an instant. A forlorn smile came to Daenerys’s face at the expression of sibling devotion. She had never enjoyed such a relationship with her brothers – one taken prematurely from this earth, the other driven cruel and mad by his losses – but she hoped someday her children would.

Before the next group could be called forth, the doors to the throne room opened. “Your Graces,” Maester Wolkan called. Though he would soon be returning to Winterfell with Sansa, for now the old man served them as their maester, until a new Grand Maester could be chosen by the Citadel. “I am afraid I must call you away. There is an urgent matter requiring your attention.”

Daenerys and Jon stood up in unintentional synchronization. “Court is adjourned for the day,” Jon proclaimed, and all the lords and ladies knelt or bowed their heads as the royal couple swept from the room. Ser Jorah as a Kingsguard followed a few feet behind.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Wolkan turned to her. “The men have finally found your lost dragon, Your Grace. There is something you should see.”

Daenerys’s blood ran cold. Immediately a million thoughts sprung to mind. _Drogon_. Was her son hurt? Dying? Dead? “Take me to him.”

In the courtyard, Drogon was crouched on the ground, coiled up tightly. Rhaegal was bent down in front of his brother, nuzzling against his brother’s snout and moaning quietly. Drogon leaned in and they pressed their heads together. “Drogon!” Daenerys cried, quickening her pace and leaving the others behind in an effort to get to her son. He needed her.

Drogon snorted and looked up at her. Despite his disappearing act during the battle, the dragon seemed perfectly unbothered. Daenerys lifted her broken hands as painful as it was to stroke Drogon’s snout and pressed a kiss against his scales. “I was so worried about you.” She whispered to the dragon, who only puffed and looked down. It was then that Daenerys noticed the objects nestled under his chin, wrapped in his wings’ protective embrace, and she lost her breath.

“Eggs.” Wolkan’s voice cut into her thoughts. She did not look even as the others appeared behind her. “Three of them.”

Daenerys could only stare blankly at the three large eggs. The first was a deep, vivid scarlet swirled with hints of jet black. _The Targaryen colors_. She thought. The second egg had silver scales that caught the light and shimmered brighter than any jewels. As for the third, it was pure, unadulterated white, and when Daenerys looked at it she could see her own reflection in the scales staring back at her.

“How is this possible?” She heard Jon’s voice say. It was the same thing Daenerys herself was wondering, but was too shocked to ask. She had believed her sons were the last dragons in existence.

Ser Jorah cleared his throat. “Your Graces, if I may – the mating patterns of dragons is something that the maesters have long debated. If I am remembering my facts correctly, Archmaester Gyldayn and Maester Yandel wrote that a dragon’s sex is indeterminable until it does or does not lay an egg. However, it was Septon Barth who theorized that dragons have no fixed sex, but can change from male to female at will if it necessary for the survival of their species.”

Wolkan nodded. “Ser Jorah is right. Regardless of which theory you believe, Drogon has proven to be not a he, but a she. The men found her on Dragonstone. She must have fled there to lay these eggs. I would say this is a very good omen for your reigns, Your Graces.”

Behind her, Jon let out a quiet laugh. “Unbelievable…”

Daenerys could not help but smile. She gently stroked Drogon’s nose. “I see,” She whispered to him – no, _her_. “You just wanted to protect your babies, didn’t you? I don’t blame you. I would’ve done the same.” Drogon nestled closer against her hand, letting out a noise akin to purring.

Now, Daenerys turned back to look at Jon. There was one thing left to do.

It took fifty men to carry the Iron Throne out to the courtyard. The thing was so massive and heavy, even with that many men they struggled to carry it. When the throne was finally dropped against the ground, even then not a single sword fell out of place. It would take something more to destroy it. The dragons inched forward, sniffing the Iron Throne in confusion.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jon asked Dany. “You don’t have to. I know how long you’ve dreamt of the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys was sure. It was not the Iron Throne she had dreamt of, really, but the changes she wanted to make once she had it. But she’d realized recently that if she wanted to make those changes, this was where she ought to start. “I do have to,” She told him. “The Iron Throne represents the old world. We need something that will represent our new one.” She was already planning new throne designs out in her head. She did not want anything extravagant. Perhaps a dragon carved into the back of one, and a wolf in the other. It needed to be something that represented them both: wolf and dragon, north and south, ice and fire.

Jon nodded and took her arm. “Very well then. Give the order.”

Daenerys looked at her dragons. “Drogon, Rhaegal – _dracarys_.”

The dragons opened their mouths and spewed streams of orange flame. The Iron Throne caught fire and gradually the swords began to melt against the heat. Daenerys watched the flames dance, and Jon squeezed her arm.

And side-by-side they watched the old way melt away, together standing on the edge of a golden world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: EVERYONE. It will basically be the equivalent of an epilogue. Happy endings all around. I'm excited to have it out to you all soon, and after that I have some one-shots I'd like to work on in this universe.


	16. The Seasons of My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the months after the war, times are changing and everyone grows back together, finally enjoying their much deserved happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this final chapter took so long! I wanted to get it exactly right. I hope you guys like it, because this is the ending that I've envisioned since before "Consign Me Not to Darkness" was even finished. I did decide to spare a few characters I was originally going to kill - Ser Jorah and the Hound, notably - but decided that since they didn't get a happy ending on the show, they deserved one universe where they could live. I'm really happy with how this turned out and I hope you are too. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support. I have been asked if I would consider writing a third part to this, and the answer is no, but like I've said I will have some one-shots in this universe coming your way in the coming months. I'm glad you all decided to see this to its conclusion, and I would appreciate it if you would consider dropping a comment, even if it's only a few words. You guys make my heart soooooo happy!

**DAENERYS**

They were crowned a month later in the Red Keep, on the last day of 305 AC. Daenerys had liked the symbolism of it. It was a fresh start, a new beginning, a time of endless possibilities.

Since there was no Sept of Baelor anymore, the coronation took place in the throne room. Historically, the king always took precedence over his wife at a coronation, but Daenerys and Jon entered the throne room side by side. The gown that had been made for her was fine silk brocade, Targaryen red and black, with a train that coiled like a dragon’s tail, and Jon was the most handsome man in the room in Targaryen black velvet slashed with Stark grey satin. Daenerys could not help but smile when she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, thinking about how she had the most noble man in all the known world.

The throne room was packed tight, lords and ladies from all across Westeros coming to bear witness to this day. She spotted Tyrion and Sansa first and Tyrion saluted them, while Sansa gave her a small smile. Their initial misgivings about each other when they met those months ago were long gone now. Arya was nearby, Gendry’s arm wrapped around her waist, while Ser Davos was joined by his wife and family. Even though she was a Stormlander too, Lady Brienne could be found by Jaime Lannister’s side. Queen Yara stood tall, Theon next to her, his hand resting gently on young Asher’s shoulder. Samwell Tarly and his entire family were a reassuring presence, while Robin Arryn had come down from the Vale and looked moody. Edmure Tully stared lovingly at his wife Lady Roslin, who was clutching her son. Elia Sand and her sister Obella were standing with their fiancés and their older sister Sarella, while the younger girls Dorea and Loreza were whispering and giggling to each other in excitement. Ser Jorah cleared the way for Jon and Daenerys as head of the Crownsguard and when he cast a glance at Dany over his shoulder, she smiled at him. She hoped she’d made him proud.

They knelt before the new High Septon, a fat man with a strong voice, who anointed them both with the seven oils and then recited some sort of prayer. Then, they both stood, facing the crowds. Jon’s crown was placed on his head first, and then Daenerys could feel the High Septon approach her from behind, the metal of the crown cold as it was nestled against her brow. Where the Iron Throne once sat were now their two thrones – Daenerys’s decorated with a dragon made of black diamonds, Jon’s a snarling white wolf with rubies for eyes – and when they sat down, the High Septon proclaimed them Queen Daenerys the First and King Aegon the Sixth.

It was Jon, not Daenerys, who had decided to take Aegon as his regnal name. The decision had surprised Dany when he first told her about it. “I’m not saying I want anyone to start calling me Aegon,” He’d explained to her. “But…it is the name my mother gave me. I felt like I should do something with it. Does that make any sense?”

When he told her that, Daenerys had smiled and crossed the room in three strides to kiss Jon. “It makes perfect sense.” She’d said, running one of her thumbs gently across his cheek. “No matter what, you’ll always be my Jon.”

After the coronation there were three days of celebrations, including feasts, dances and jousts, and finally it was time to settle into normal life. Sansa and Arya both promised to visit the twins after they were born, and though they knew they were only saying goodbye for now, it was still hard for Jon to part with his sisters. The last time they say goodbye they did not see each other for years afterwards. Daenerys was sure they would be writing often.

She could not help but feel emotional saying goodbye to Tyrion, even if her Hand would be back for a visit soon once Sansa was settled in at Winterfell – Daenerys was exceptionally grateful for him, and counted him among her closest companions – and Gendry Baratheon, Yara Greyjoy and Samwell Tarly all received kisses on the cheek in farewell. Luckily even after all the lords and ladies had fled the capital, the new king and queen still had friends to keep them company. Even though Sam had gone to Highgarden, Jon still had Dolorous Edd, now employed as the Red Keep master-at-arms. Ser Jorah remained one of Daenerys’s most treasured companions, and she enjoyed her alone time with Missandei every evening. The two of them would discuss the day’s events as Daenerys bathed and dressed for bed, gossiping and fixing each other’s hair.

At court they quickly settled into their routines. Daenerys and Jon were a united front in all things, seated side by side in their thrones when they needed to hear petitions or settle disputes. Jon never wore his crown, nor did anyone actually call him Aegon – anyone who knew him knew to call him Jon, and the smallfolk simply said “Your Grace”, or “King Jon” if they called him by any name at all – but he exuded the strength and dignity befitting his rank. Daenerys knew his mother would be so proud of her boy if she could see the man he’d become. Likewise Dany did not wear her crown either – it got heavy on her head after a few hours, and she knew a good monarch didn’t need a crown to tell people they were in charge. The nobility of their presence was enough. Jon told her once that when he saw her sitting on her throne, her head held high as she listened calmly to whomever was speaking, taking it all in, there could be no doubt that she was a queen.

A few weeks into their reign, the Citadel sent a new Grand Maester. The man, Ebrose, was said to be a great healer, though Daenerys also knew through Lord Tarly that Ebrose had dismissed his concerns about the coming of the Night King and had initially refused to treat Ser Jorah for his greyscale, instead leaving him to die. So far they were not getting off on the right foot.

“Your Graces,” Grand Maester Ebrose said the first time he was introduced to Daenerys and Jon. “It shall be an honor to serve you.”

Dany smiled weakly as the older man bent down to kiss her hand. “The honor is ours, Grand Maester. Lord Tarly and Ser Jorah have told us much about you.” She paused, giving him the once over. “Might I ask you, how is the Citadel progressing with my…request?”

They had promised the Sand Snakes in exchange for their military aid that some way or somehow they would get the Citadel to admit women. Good Queen Alysanne had tried to achieve that same goal during Jaehaerys I’s reign, but nothing ever came of it. It was not as simple as issuing a royal decree, for ultimately the decision lay with the archmaesters.

Ebrose frowned. “It was discussed, my queen, but I believe the archmaesters are set in their ways. I think it best to cut your losses.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “I made a promise to our friends at Sunspear that I would ensure the Citadel admits women. Grand Maester, I’m not the kind of woman to _cut my losses_ – nor is Princess Elia, I fear. Should the maesters refuse my request, I would not put it past her to go to war against the throne.”

“It is a lost cause, my queen. You should’ve heard them. Archmaester Ryam said – ” Ebrose cut himself off, realizing that perhaps he better stop talking.

Daenerys wanted to ask him what exactly it was Archmaester Ryam said, but Jon beat her to it. “And what is that exactly?” He asked, his voice stern.

“That…” the Grand Maester swallowed. “That women and girls are too weak of mind, and he would see them admitted to the Citadel when the seven hells freeze over.”

For a moment, Daenerys said nothing, nodding slowly. She wet her lips. “Well then, I suppose today it finally snows in the seven hells.” She turned to Jon. “Let’s get Drogon and Rhaegal.”

Jon was silent, and while he would not question her in front of another, Dany knew he was uncertain. “Are you certain you can fly given your condition? Perhaps I could go and speak to them – ”

“You can say _pregnancy_ , Jon, it’s not a bad word. I’m not due for another moonturn. Besides – ” She laughed bitterly. “I need to show Archmaester Ryam what women are actually capable of.”

What transpired next was something that was immortalized in many history books in the years after. When the king and queen flew over Oldtown on dragonback, people all over the city came outside to stare. When the maesters heard the commotion and streamed out into the courtyard outside the Citadel, they found King Jon on the back of his fierce green dragon, but what was even more terrifying was the black Drogon, Balerion come again, with Queen Daenerys on his back. Archmaester Marwyn says that there had never been a grander sight than the silver-haired queen with fire in her eyes. Archmaester Perestan wrote that upon their landing, King Jon asked if a goat could be brought for their hungry dragons, and when the goat was brought to them, Drogon and Rhaegal snarled and devoured the still live animal, charring it with their fiery breath and ripping it limb from limb. Meanwhile Queen Daenerys looked at the archmaester and coolly asked if they had reconsidered their position on admitting women. This visual was, clearly, about more than the dragons being hungry. Archmaester Ryam claims that the queen also looked at him and asked what would happen to a human body in a dragon’s jaws, though he’s the only one to mention this particular detail, and he is unmistakably biased. What all accounts can agree on, however, is that when Queen Daenerys and King Jon flew back to King’s Landing, the queen had gotten her way.

Grand Maester Ebrose stared wide-eyed as Daenerys and Jon landed back at the Red Keep. Jon slid off Rhaegal’s back while Daenerys smiled down, satisfied with herself. “I think, Grand Maester,” She said. “That the archmaesters have decided to _count their losses_.”

“Your Grace,” Ebrose said, staring at her with what was either shock or awe – maybe both – in his eyes. “I must say, the stories of your greatness were not exaggerated.”

Daenerys smiled. Perhaps she and Grand Maester Ebrose would get along after all. She stepped down from Drogon’s back and immediately froze, nearly doubling over.

Jon saw her face go white and stepped forward, a hand touching her shoulder. “Dany, are you all right?”

Daenerys let out a slow breath and straightened herself out, a hand cradling her bump. “I’m fine,” She assured. “It’s only that my water just broke.”

* * *

**JAIME**

The Casterly Rock of his childhood was gone.

The halls were quiet. The tapestries on the walls were covered in dust. He stopped dining in the great hall and took all his meals in his room, because he hated looking down that long, golden table and seeing nothing but empty chairs. Maester Creylen, the old, decrepit, half-blind maester who had taught Jaime to read many years ago and constantly wrapped his knuckles every time he mispronounced a word (which was often), had finally died, succumbing to a winter chill which took him away in the middle of the night. The Citadel sent a plucky young maester named Forley to replace him, a plain-faced man in his twenties who was eager to serve and had a habit of rambling on and on about random topics. In his first week back at the Rock, Jaime had to endure Maester Forley going off on tangents about the history of dragonglass, every Lannister who had ever taken a maester’s vows (in alphabetical order), and the medicinal uses of cow dung.  

With him from King’s Landing he brought Tya, a ruddy-faced, plump woman who had previously served Cersei as a chambermaid but now acted as Barristan’s wet nurse. Though she was barely thirty, she’d already whelped seven children for her farmer husband. She was a woman of few words, but Jaime was secretly grateful for some quiet – he simply called for Tya when Barristan began to cry for the breast, and she would appear silently and shove her nipple into his mouth, rocking the baby back and forth until he’d had his fill. Barristan seemed to take to her, and that was enough for Jaime.

The only member of the household Jaime knew was Ser Benedict Broome, the master-at-arms whose father had been master-at-arms before him, and Jaime would go out to the courtyard with him when he felt the need to hit something. Jaime had known Ben since they were children, and luckily the other man did not go easier on him because he only had one hand now. But in truth, Jaime did not really mind that Casterly Rock was different now. He was different now too, and he relished in having things to do, to take his mind off the negative memories associated with the Westerlands. Even if he talked too much, Forley was kind and eager to please, and sometimes Jaime even found himself smiling as the maester talked to him about how to endear yourself to ravens or the breeding patterns of dragons. In a moment of good will or temporary insanity – Jaime was not sure which – he even invited Tya to bring her husband and seven little hellions to the Rock. The children ranging from fourteen to one descended upon the castle like a swarm, all sticky hands and wide-eyed smiles.

“You’re Jaime Lannister!” One of the seven year old twins exclaimed when he laid eyes on Jaime for the first time. “You’re the Queenslayer!”

“Rupert!” Tya chastised, her voice the loudest Jaime had ever heard it. “Do not speak to Lord Lannister like that!”

Jaime bent down to the boy’s level, little Rupert staring at him with starry eyes. “Aye,” Jaime told him. “I suppose I am.”

Rupert grinned, while his twin sister was staring at Jaime like she was already half in love with him. “You’re our hero, m’lord!” The girl proclaimed confidently. “You killed the Mad Queen and saved the kingdoms! They should write songs about you! Could you teach my brother and me to fight like you?”

“Rosey,” Tya began to say. “Lord Lannister has better things to do – ”

But Jaime cut off her protests. “Actually, it’s no trouble at all.” After that he arranged for young Rupert and Rosey to train with Broome every second day of the week. He always had to laugh when the girl ran circles around her brother, knocking him down on his rump again and again. His favorite days, however, were the third days of the week, because each week without fail a raven would come from Tarth, bearing a letter from Brienne. Jaime had never particularly enjoyed reading – even after years of practice, sometimes the words would still get jumbled before his eyes, twisting and seeming to lift off the pages – but Brienne’s letters he would read once, twice, three times, until he had practically memorized them. It didn’t even matter what she was writing to him about. Half the time they were perfectly mundane things, like the new colt that had been born at the stables, the traveling singer who had stopped by hoping to win her lord father’s favor, or the fish that Lord Tarth’s men had caught this week. He savored every word, and he would reread her letters over again on the nights when he was unable to sleep, smiling at the thought of her: his wench, his love, his Brienne. He supposed she was not truly _his_ yet, but Jaime knew without a doubt that he was irrevocably _hers_. His heart was hers and hers alone: hers to cherish, or hers to break.

He spent far too long trying to formulate his replies. Jaime had never been a particularly good letter writer. Once, he even went to find Maester Forley, asking him embarrassedly to check for spelling errors before he sent it out. “If you don’t mind me saying, m’lord,” Forley told him as he handed the scroll back, having deemed it perfect. “I find it touching, how much you care for Lady Brienne. It would be sweet to have a Lady for Casterly Rock, and perhaps some more children to run about these halls.”

Jaime did not say anything in reply. He wanted to marry Brienne, but would she say yes? She had never wanted to be some man’s lady, but Jaime did not want her to be _a_ lady. He wanted her to be his lady, just as she was, his partner in all things. He still did not understand why someone as good as Brienne wanted to be with a one-handed kinslayer like him, and he knew she probably deserved better, but he would spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of her if she’d have him, because Brienne was the person in this world whom he loved the most – well, one of the people whom he loved the most.

When Jaime and Cersei were children, their nursery had been at the opposite end of the castle from the lord’s chambers, so that their crying at night would not disturb Lord Tywin. When Jaime had arrived he’d ordered for the old nursery to be shut up – he did not know if he could bear to look at it, anyways – and have the bedchamber next to his made up for his son. He felt better knowing that he could easily go see Barristan every time he desired, and he often found himself there at night when he could not sleep.

Tonight it was storming out and he could hear Barristan’s muffled cries through the walls. When he walked into the nursery, Tya was up and rocking the boy in her arms as she attempted to soothe him, to no avail. “Hush, little lion.” She whispered to him. “You’ll wake your lord father…”

“I was already up, Tya.” The wet nurse looked over at him, and Barristan’s desperate sobs turned into quiet coos. “I’ll take him.”

“Are you sure, m’lord? It’s no trouble – ”

“As it is no trouble for me to take care of my own son. Go back to bed – that’s an order from your lord.” Tya thanked him and placed Barristan in his arms, before scurrying off.

In the distance thunder crashed, and Jaime glanced around the darkened room, bouncing Barristan in his arms. The chamber had been decorated in Lannister colors – a red blanket in the crib, a gold-painted rocking chair, a dozen stuffed lions of various sizes – and Jaime chuckled to himself. “Just in case you somehow forget our sigil, little lion.” He murmured to Barristan, repeating the wet nurse’s nickname for him. Barristan only sucked obliviously on his knuckles as Jaime carried him to the window, looking out at the rain-drenched green hills and valleys beyond. “You see that, my son? Someday this will all be yours, everything as far as the eye can see…”

Jaime wondered what his father would say if he could see that he had finally done what he always wanted him to do. Now he was the head of their house, and had produced an heir to guarantee the Lannister succession. All Tywin had cared about was the family legacy. He pressed his lips against Barristan’s head. “But I don’t care about that. I would rather you be a good man than a great one, my son. I just want you to be happy.”

 _And perhaps,_ Jaime thought. _It is time your father is happy too…_

Jaime did not know why he was having this one-sided conversation with a seven month old who could not understand what he was saying, but the words came pouring out of him all the same. “We’re going to visit Lady Brienne on Tarth soon. You like Lady Brienne don’t you?” Barristan let out a happy baby giggle in response, and Jaime pressed a kiss to his chubby cheek. “I like Lady Brienne too. In fact, I’m going to ask Lady Brienne to spend the rest of her life with us. Would that be all right?” In response, Barristan stared up at him with his big green eyes, sucking on his thumb and drooling. Jaime smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He only hoped that Brienne would say yes too.

* * *

**SANSA**

By the time they left King’s Landing, her lip was healed and her black eye faded, though part of Sansa still did not feel ready to go. It was hard to leave Jon and Arya, even if she knew they would see each other again soon. She rode at the front of the procession on back of her palfrey, Tyrion by her side, a northern horde at her back. Tormund wiped a tear from his eye as they watched King’s Landing fade into the horizon behind them. “My little crow,” He said. “All grown up now, and a king…”

But when Winterfell first appeared ahead, there was never a more welcome sight. Sansa may have found Arya uncouth as a child, but in that moment she almost wanted to jump off her horse, hike up her skirts, and run through the snow to Winterfell’s gates. “My lady, my lord,” The guards greeted them as they rode up, opening the gates. “Welcome home.” At long last, after years of struggles, she was home, and the past was behind her. She was _home_.

Finally Sansa could breathe easily. She back at Winterfell, surrounded by the four walls she knew best. She had her lady companions and handmaids to keep her company: Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly, Lyanna Mormont, Alys Karstark, Eddara Tallhart, Manda and Munda Rayder. Every day was occupied not with war councils and battle preparations, but with teas and dinner parties and mindless gossip that Sansa could only laugh or roll her eyes at. Sometimes it hurt, walking around Winterfell and feeling her family’s presence at every turn. Sometimes she woke up at night with a scream lodged in her throat from nightmares of severed heads and bloody weddings and dying wolves. Sometimes she could swear she heard the sounds of Rickon’s laughter or her mother’s voice, feel Robb’s hand on her shoulder or her father’s gentle touch. But being at Winterfell also felt warm, comforting, familiar. She was the Stark in Winterfell now. Her family was gone, but they would live on through her.

There was only one problem: Tyrion.

Things between them were good, for the most part. For the first time in their marriage they could be together in peace, nothing standing in their way. They were closer than ever…but they still hadn’t made love to each other.

 _Is it me?_ Sansa could not help but wonder. They slept in the same bed every night and yet he didn’t touch her. _Does he not want me?_ There couldn’t be someone else. She knew Tyrion loved her. So what was the problem then? How could she get her husband to make love to her?

Her worries must have been etched all over her face, because one day during tea she got lost in her thoughts and it was only when she realized Lyanna Mormont was repeatedly saying her name that she came around. “Lady Stark? Did you hear what I just said to you?”

Sansa shook her head and when she looked down, her stitches were crooked, zigzagging all across the fabric. Even twelve-year-old Arya could’ve done better than that. “I’m sorry, I…I don’t mean to be rude. I’m quite tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Tormund’s elder daughter Manda leaned over to whisper in her sister Munda’s ear. “As most newlywed women don’t.” Munda burst out laughing and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, though some of the other ladies still gave her sideways glances, and Sansa’s ears burnt with embarrassment. She had not been sleeping for a very different reason.

“You look like you were somewhere else, my lady.” said Lady Cassel, ignoring the younger women’s antics. “Is there something bothering you?”

Could she tell them? If there was anyone she could ask about this, it would be the other married women. Sansa placed down her sewing and looked up. “Well…there is one thing. I was just wondering…” She could feel a blush creep up her cheeks. “How a lady should get her husband to share her bed?”

There was a long moment of silence as all the other women and girls looked at her, and then the silence was broken by the sound of Lyanna Mormont’s snorting laughter.

Lyessa Flint looked concerned. “Does Lord Tyrion not come to you at night, my lady? Does he…” She trailed off. “Do you believe he has a lover?”

“No!” Sansa answered immediately. Despite her concerns, she knew there was no other woman in Tyrion’s life. While her husband may have had a philandering past, there was not a doubt in her mind that his heart was fully with her. “No, it’s not like that. He sleeps beside me every night, it’s just that we have not been… _intimate_. In that way.”

“Ever?”

Sansa shook her head. “That’s why I was wondering…if you married ladies could help me. Is there something I could do that he would like? That would make him want me?”

The older women glanced at each other. “My lady,” said Leona Woolfield, who was the wife of Ser Wylis Manderley of White Harbor, and mother to Wynafryd and Wylla. “While you are well-intentioned, I believe you are misguided. It is not a matter of not wanting you.”

“It’s not?”

Sybelle Glover shook her head. “It is clear that Lord Tyrion loves you, Lady Stark, in all the ways a man ought to love his wife. If you’ll forgive my saying so, it looks to me like your…your _past_ , makes him anxious about consummation. He does not want to push you before you are ready.”

Sansa’s eyes suddenly burned with tears of anger and sadness when she thought of Ramsay Bolton. She would have to live with what he'd done to her for the rest of her life, but she didn't want his memory to destroy her relationship with Tyrion too. For once she wanted to lay with a man because she wanted to, without him viewing her as broken. She could not help but feel like this was one more thing Ramsay had taken from her, and she would not stand for it. “Well then, what should I say to him to let him know that I’m ready?”

“Well then, what should I say to him to let him know that I’m ready?”

“Why say anything,” Munda whispered, but not quietly enough that Sansa could not hear. “When you could just take off your clothes and show him?” Her sister choked back a laugh.

Lady Leona blushed. “I’m sorry, my lady,” She said. “But I do not know if this is an appropriate conversation to have in front of maidens. I’m sure Lord Tyrion will share your bed when he’s ready.”

They sewed in silence after that, and finally when the other women got up to leave, Sansa called Manda and Munda back for a moment. “I could not help…” Sansa began tentatively, blushing. “I could not help but overhear your comments. Would you mind…giving me some advice?”

Manda brushed a lock of Sansa’s red hair behind her ear. “You are a beautiful woman, Lady Stark.” She said. “Kissed by fire. I love men, but I must tell you, they are simple and stupid. They can never take a hint. If you want your husband to fuck you, you’ll have to make it abundantly clear. Otherwise your marriage will still be unconsummated when you’re fifty.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Make yourself irresistible.” Her eyes glimmered. “I know these fancy ladies have their fancy lace underclothes they like to wear to seduce their husbands, but I find it much more effective when you’re wearing nothing at all.”

“Well, all right. Anything else?”

“Let me say,” Munda added. “That in my experience, men like women who take control in the bedchamber sometimes. They might try to deny it, but every man likes to be ridden for a change.”  

Sansa’s nose wrinkled. “So it’s like riding a horse?”

Manda smirked, her eyes sparkling deviously. “Not at all, my lady. No, riding a man is much better.”  

That night, after Sansa’s maids had drawn her bath, she dismissed them to be alone. She sat there for a long time, submerged in the rose-scented bath until the water went cold, before finally summoning the courage to get out. After she’d dried herself off, she folded the towel back up and sprawled across the downturned bed, waiting for Tyrion. Originally she lay on her side, her head propped up with her elbow, but then she realized that was hurting her neck and tried to lean back instead, which just made her feel like she looked stupid. She was considering disregarding everything Manda and Munda had said altogether when the doorknob was turning and she knew Tyrion was coming. Panicking, Sansa sat up straight on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs, quickly trying to fix her hair.

Tyrion froze in the doorway when he saw her sitting there, completely naked, hair tossed over one shoulder, not saying a word. For a long moment he stared before he asked: “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

A pause. “Do you want me to get your nightgown for you, my lady?”

“No, I – ” Sansa suddenly felt very stupid. She did not know how to be sexy. She felt like a little girl. “I just wanted to do something nice for you. To make myself look nice for you. It was stupid…”

His eyes softened. “My lady, you always look nice. You’re beautiful.”

“Yes, but…I want you to be attracted to me. In _that_ way.”

“I am attracted to you.”

“Then why haven’t you slept with me?”

They stared at each other in silence, Sansa feeling like her heart was beating as fast as it ever had. “Sansa,” Tyrion began slowly. “I…have wanted to be with you. I was just worried that if I was too forward about it…it might seem like I was forcing myself on you. I wanted to give you time. I’d wait for you as long as you needed.”

As upset as she had been earlier, the way he said it made Sansa feel like she could cry for a different reason this time. She heard so many stories about men who didn’t respect their wives’ space, who just wanted what they wanted when they wanted it, and as annoyed as she had been these past few weeks she suddenly felt so happy that she had a husband who respected her so much. “Well you gave me time,” She finally said. “Now here I am, saying that I want you. I know that my past…” She swallowed, not even wanting to go there. “I want to do this with you. I love you, and I want us to have that kind of intimacy in our marriage. I trust you.”

Tyrion didn’t say anything at first, stripping off his jerkin, placing his boots in the same spot by the fire where he placed them every night. Then he walked over to the bed and stood before her, gently brushing her hair behind her ear, his warm fingers lingering against her cheek. A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine and she forgot everything Manda and Munda had told her to do, acting purely on instinct as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him as close to her as he could possibly be. Tyrion smiled at her. “Well then. As your faithful and loving husband, I must oblige.”

“Good thing you know what you’re doing. I don’t.”

“My love, you know quite a lot of things.”

Sansa smiled. She suddenly wanted to laugh remembering the conversation Margaery Tyrell had once had with her about sex. There was a part of her that was still nervous, but she knew that Tyrion would never hurt her. There was no one else she’d want to do this with. “Touch me.” She whispered.

And he did.

Afterwards they lay naked, facing each other, both struggling to regain their breath, sweaty and sated. “Was I all right?” Sansa asked.

Her husband looked at her and grinned. “My lady,” Tyrion said. “I can assure you, I’ve never had better.”  

“I thought it would hurt more. Septa Mordane always said that it wasn’t good, for girls. But…I liked it. More than I thought I would. I think I’d like to do it again. But not right now. I’m tired.”

Tyrion chuckled lowly and reached over to cup the back of her head, pulling her in so that their noses were touching. “Well good thing we have the rest of our lives then. We’ll have plenty of time.”

Sansa smiled. “Indeed.”

The fire crackled and she rolled onto her back, pulling the fur blanket over her bare chest, relishing the feeling of the bed’s warmth. The room smelt like cinnamon, and evergreen fir, and burning wood, and _him_. Sansa closed her eyes and inhaled. _Home_.

* * *

**THEON**

“How did your lesson with the maester go?”

Asher wrinkled his nose. “Okay. He says my letters are crooked.”

Theon looked down. Asher was currently practicing his alphabet in the journal the maester had given him, and while he was much improved, his lowercase _b_ and _d_ were flipped and his _F_ was so slanted it looked like it was going to topple over. The early evening winds on the beach were causing the pages to flutter and Asher kept forcefully pushing them back down. “That’s all right. You’re learning.”

Asher visibly perked up. “I’m going to write a letter to Loreza!” From where she was sitting on the adjacent rock, Yara smirked.

Even after coming to the Iron Islands, Asher had not forgotten his crush. When they’d parted in King’s Landing, little Loreza Sand had surprised them all by planting a chaste kiss to Asher’s mouth. “You must write to me. Promise me you will?”

“I will!” Asher had responded brightly, watching with a big smile as Loreza walked off to join her sisters, waving goodbye at him over her shoulder.

Once she was gone, Theon had looked down at Asher with a smirk. “You don’t know how to write.”

“I can learn!”

And learning he was. Asher pursued his studies with a fierce determination – the fever of first love proved to be a powerful motivator. Currently Asher was repeatedly circling the letter _L_ with his quill. Theon had flirted with many girls as a youth – he could not even remember how many girls he had kissed or fondled behind the stables at Winterfell – but he had never pursued one so strongly.

“Maester Wendamyr says that there are krakens off the coast of Dorne.” Asher said. “Is that true?” Theon glanced at Yara and Asher looked to her, wide-eyed. Yara nodded her head and Asher let out a sharp gasp. “I knew it!”

Theon didn’t know if krakens were real or not, but he’d let Asher have his fun. “There are some even closer,” He said. “At Cape Kraken in the North. I heard that the mountain men feed their misbehaving children to the krakens to keep them appeased.”

Asher stared at him for a long moment, then let out a low breath. “Cool.”

“Your Graces.” Theon and Yara turned around as Maester Wendamyr walked down the stony beach towards them, a rolled up parchment in hand. “A letter for you, my prince.”

“Thank you, Maester.” Theon accepted the letter from him and spotted Sansa’s Stark seal. Even though the Iron Islands had now been granted their independence, they still enjoyed a close relationship with the North, through both trading relations and the bonds of friendship.

Yara tapped Asher on the shoulder to get his attention and nodded her head towards the water. “Won’t it be cold?” Asher asked, and Yara shrugged in response, her facial expression as if to say “what, are you afraid?” Asher, not wanting to be outdone, narrowed his eyes. “All right, let’s go.”

The queen took her nephew’s hand and they started off down the beach, kicking off their boots and socks along the way and leaving them in a trail down towards the water. “Father?” Asher yelled back at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ll be there in a moment.” Theon told him, his thumb breaking the seal on Sansa’s letter.

_Theon –_

_Before you ask, no, I will not call you ‘my prince’. You may be a queen’s brother now, but you’re still the annoying boy I grew up with._

Theon smiled at that.

_In response to your last letter, I’m settling in quite well here. It’s good to be home. You must come to visit us soon – you know you’re welcome anytime, as are your sister the queen and the young prince. It would be nice to see children running around Winterfell again. It feels like forever since we were children. Doesn’t it seem so long ago now? How innocent and happy we used to be?_

A wistful smile came to his face at the memories. He could remember when he and Robb were boys, the mischief they used to make, the jokes they used to pull. He remembered running out with Jon on snowy mornings to have snowball flights, their cloaks pulled tight and their cheeks red from cold. He could remember the annoyed look on Sansa’s face when they would throw a snowball at her, the snowflakes accumulating in Arya’s messy hair and dark eyelashes, how Bran and Rickon would try to chase after them or go to make snow angels. He remembered how Lady Catelyn would roll her eyes good-naturedly when they tracked wet prints into the castle, but Lord Eddard would laugh and tell someone to bring them hot mugs of ginger tea and warm woolen socks. It felt like another lifetime, but also so close at the same time, like if he could reach out and grasp the memory between his fingers, holding it close.

_I hope everything is well at Pyke. Give my warm wishes to Queen Yara and all my love to Asher. I hope you are well too, Theon. I’ve been thinking about you quite a lot lately, now that I’m back here, thinking of all we endured together. I know that it has been a long road, but I hope you’ve found peace. You’re a good man, Theon Greyjoy. I know that our father and brother would be very proud of you._

_Please write soon. I look forward to hearing from you._

_Yours,_

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_

There was a lump in his throat by the time he reached the end and he was only brought back to the present moment by the sound of Asher’s voice. “Father!” When Theon looked up, Asher was standing with Yara at the water’s edge, wading in and soaking their pant legs. The sky glowed orange. “The sun is going down! Come see!”

Theon swallowed. “I’ll be right there!” Once more he glanced at Sansa’s words, staring at her use of the word _our_. Then he folded the letter up and slid it into his pocket for safekeeping. “I’m coming!” He yelled to his son, before trotting down the beach towards the sunset.

* * *

**ARYA**

Once the affairs in Westeros were settled – her brother and goodsister seated on their thrones, Storm’s End safely under Baratheon control once more, and a visit to their newborn niece and nephew paid – they _finally_ decided to take that honeymoon.

They had about two months carved out, a week for each of the Free Cities, Arya and Gendry having left the Stormlands behind in Mya and Bella’s hands while they were away. (Arya did not suspect that any problems would arise, considering how happy everyone seemed to be after the end of the war, and even if there _was_ – well, the Stormlands had spent years without a liege lord, so they could figure it out while Arya had a little alone time with her husband.)

First was Lys with its blue-green waters teeming with fish, and its abundant trees that bore some of the sweetest fruits known to man. The markets of Volantis sold bottles of red wine and intricately carved pieces for cyvasse. In Myr they took in the vivid portraits on display in the artisans’ district and Arya purchased some fine Myrish lace for Sansa. Tyrosh boasted brightly colored fabrics and more pear brandy than any man could drink, but they agreed the flamboyant styles were not to their taste. Pentos was full of musicians and spice traders, while Qohor boasted fine tapestries and ironworking that Gendry swore was better than any he had ever seen. Norvos had rolling hills and quaint villages, Lorath stormy seas and textiles merchants selling rich velvets.

Braavos was last. They stayed at an inn on the Purple Harbor, owned by a friendly married couple, and Arya and Gendry’s room looked out onto the water. There were so many places Arya wanted to go, so many things she loved about Braavos that she wanted to share with her husband. They went to a show at the mummer’s playhouse and visited the best alehouses, viewed the work of the craftsmen and listened to the songs of the minstrels. Every night they would make their way to the Moon Pool to watch the water dancers perform. It was, out of all nine Free Cities, both of their favorites by far.

“If this whole lord thing doesn’t work out,” She told Gendry one day as they strolled through the market. “We could always move here – you’ll be a smith again, I’ll be a water dancer. Maybe we can start our own little inn, or have a shack by the harbor.”

Gendry grinned and grabbed her by the waist so he could pull her in for a kiss. “Sounds perfect.”

But she had other business in Braavos to attend to as well. The penultimate night of the visit, Arya left Gendry asleep in their room and slipped back out onto the dark streets, clutching the bag of faces tightly in her hand.

The last time she’d stood outside the door to the House of the Black and White, she’d been a scared little girl who felt she had nowhere . She’d lost her family, she’d lost Gendry, she’d believed that there was no one left in this world who wanted her. She’d had nothing left to lose, and now she had everything. She raised her hand and knocked on the door.

The man who opened the door was short with pale skin and a bald head, the hood of his robe pulled up around his face. His glassy blue eyes stared at her unspeaking for several moments. “Name your business.”

Arya sighed. “I know it’s you, Jaqen.” She held up the bag of faces. “I have something for you.”

Inside the House of Black and White there was not another soul in sight and Arya trailed behind, looking around nervously. “You have given the Many-Faced God his two names?” Jaqen asked her. He was back in his familiar face and examining the contents of the bag.

Arya nodded. “Qyburn and Manfred Trant.”

“ _Valar morghulis_.” He turned to look at her. “Their faces shall be added to the hall.”  

Her hands were steady as Arya pressed Qyburn and Trant’s skins against the wall. Lined up next to them were many faces she had worn over the years: the little girl’s face she’d used to kill both Trants, the young woman’s face she’d used for Walder Frey, Lord Frey’s own face which she had used to kill his accomplices. They were not hers anymore. She did not feel overly emotional about it. “That’s it then?”

Jaqen nodded. “The debt is paid. A girl is free to leave any time she wishes.”

Arya turned to him, hesitating. “I suspect we’ll never see each other again.” As grateful as she was the debt was paid, there was a small part of her that remembered how she’d once considered Jaqen a friend when she had no one else.

“Very likely not. But who knows? The future is…full of possibilities.” Then, he surprised Arya by reaching a hand out for her to shake. “A man wishes a girl good fortune.”

Tentatively, Arya took his outstretched hand and squeezed it firmly. “Well,” She sighed. “I suppose the Waif was right after all. I never had what it took to be a Faceless Man.”

Jaqen looked at her with what Arya swore was amusement. “You always had many gifts,” He said. “But to be a Faceless Man you must be No One. And you, Arya Stark? You were always someone.”

After midnight, she slipped back into bed quietly and Gendry stirred, rolling over to wrap his arms around her. “How’d it go?” He murmured, voice thick from sleep.

Arya smiled through the dark and kissed his cheek. “It’s over.” Her lips moved from Gendry’s cheek to his mouth, and suddenly he was alert now as he kissed her back. No more sleep was had that night.

Now their lives together could truly begin.

Two days later a ship took them back to Storm’s End and over the next month, they settled into their new lives. It rained in the Stormlands more days of the week than it did not, but Arya found things to do. First she explored every nook and cranny of the castle until she felt like she knew it well enough to walk around blindfolded. Sometimes she would go down to the kitchens to bother Hot Pie and joke with Willow, stealing hot raisin breads or apple tarts off of trays, or spend time with Gendry’s sisters. Mya was always laughing and teasing, capable of making anything into a jape, and Bella could hold her own as well. One day Mya suggested that they teach Bella how to wield a sword, but swordfighting proved to not be one of Bella’s strengths, and when Mya teased her sister Bella retaliated by throwing the practice sword at her and accidentally busted Mya’s lip. There had been no hard feelings though and they’d all laughed so hard they cried.

When the weather was clear, Arya would practice training in the yard or go out riding. Her favorite place to go was into the nearby village. As Lady of Storm’s End, she wanted to know all of the people under her control, so she would say hello to them and buy trinkets from their carts. On the days when he did not have a meeting to go to or letters to read, Gendry would come with her and their horses would always be swarmed as soon as they arrived. Little boys would stare at Gendry and the hammer strapped to him with wide eyes, and little girls would tug on Arya’s pant legs, saying that someday they were going to become warriors just like she was. Arya told them they were more than welcome to come to the castle and train with her if their parents allowed it, and all of them did – it was considered a great honor to have one’s daughter as Lady Baratheon’s protégé. Other days Arya and Gendry would walk down on the beach and skip rocks on the ocean, and in a waterfall they found she taught him to swim. Afterwards they made love on the water’s edge and Arya silently thought that her life could not be more perfect than this.

Once it rained every day for a fortnight, water pounding against all of the castle windows, thunder booming so loudly it sounded like it was just outside, lightning lighting up the night. The castle was damp and cold, and everyone fell ill. Gendry only had a minor cold, but Arya was nauseous, her head ached, and she felt occasional pains in her pelvis. Even after the weather cleared and everyone else’s health returned, hers only worsened. Arya did not want to worry Gendry, but she knew she should talk to someone.

On a drizzly morning she knocked gently on the open door of the maester’s chambers. “Maester Jurne? Might I speak with you for a moment?”

The old man turned around in his seat. “Certainly, my lady.” Jurne was a wrinkled man with thin grey hair and dark eyes that sparkled with years of wisdom. Though Arya was not sure how old he was, he had been in service to Storm’s End since Gendry’s grandfather ruled as lord, and had personally pulled Gendry’s father and uncles from their mother’s womb. “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s stupid, really.” Arya said. “It’s just that I’m still a little sick. I was wondering if you had something to combat it.”

“Certainly.” The maester examined his shelves full of herbs and glass bottles. “What ails you, my lady? A cough? A sore throat? A fever?”

“Well…I’m quite nauseous. I keep getting headaches, and I’m more tired than usual. I just can’t get over it, which isn’t like me.”

The maester turned back and looked at her for a long moment. He looked like he was thinking. “I see. Why don’t you take a seat? I think I know what it might be.”

Arya sat down in the chair he pointed to and Maester Jurne sat across from her, grunting softly as he lowered himself into the seat. The maester felt her forehead for a fever, examined the back of her throat, and she was surprised when he finally began to gently prod her stomach with his hands.

The maester mumbled something, which Arya thought looked to be along the lines of: “Just as I thought…” He looked up at her. “Pardon my asking, my lady, but have you gained any weight recently?”

Arya thought about it – she hadn’t noticed any drastic changes in her body, but that morning as she dressed her pants felt tighter. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time. “Perhaps a little. Why?”

The maester did not answer her, standing up. “Well,” He said finally. “There does seem to be a reason for your illness.”

Arya waited for him to explain, but after a pause the maester still hadn’t said anything, turning away and going back to his desk. “And? What is it?”

“You’re with child.”

The words hit her as hard as a slap and Arya stared silently. “What?” Surely she must’ve heard him wrong…But even in the midst of her shock, one of her hands fell to press against her stomach without her even realizing it, as some part deep within her already knew the maester’s assertion to be true.

Jurne was smiling at her now. “You’re with child, my lady. You have not bled lately, I presume?” He looked back at his shelves. “Ginger should help with the morning sickness. I’ll brew you some tea – ”

Arya opened her mouth, but no words came out. It was then she realized that she had not gotten her moon blood since Lorath, and that she’d taken no moon tea that night in Braavos…Still, she was tentative. “I was told in the past that I might not be able to have children. Is there a chance that I might…?” She thought of the pain she’d been feeling in her pelvis and wondered if that was a sign she might miscarry.

“My lady,” Jurne assured her. “You seem to be in perfect health. All of your symptoms are perfectly normal, and should go away in due time. I see no reason why you shouldn’t deliver a healthy child around the end of this year. Congratulations.”

The hand over her stomach pressed tighter against it and Arya remained seated, fearing that if she stood up she might faint. Her head was spinning. “I’m pregnant.” She whispered, mostly to herself, wanting to see how the words would feel on her tongue. She could still scarcely believe it. A few months ago she hadn’t even been able to get pregnant. _Those fucking Baratheon genes_. Gendry really had gotten her with child as soon as he was able. Unable to help herself, she burst out laughing.

“My lady,” Jurne said, looking at her with confusion. He probably thought she’d lost her wits as she sat there laughing hysterically. “Are you all right?”

Arya realized that her eyes had filled with tears, the shock and the awe and the joy overflowing. For so long her life had centered on war and death and vengeance, but now…This was the beginning of a whole new life in more ways than one. _Wait until I tell Gendry._ She could already imagine how his eyes would light up at the news. _I hope it has his eyes…_

“Yes,” Arya said, smiling. “Yes Maester, I am quite well.”

* * *

**SAMWELL**

Even in winter, Highgarden was the most beautiful place he had ever seen.

The walled, white stone castle rose out from the mouth of the Mander, with newer, slimmer towers and also older, fatter ones that dated back to the Andal invasion. As their barge floated down the river towards their new home, the water sparkled in the light of the white sun. “Pretty!” Little Sam cried out from his grandmother’s lap, and Lady Melessa and Talla stared up at the castle in fascination.

Sam could feel Gilly’s hand tighten around his bicep. “It’s so beautiful,” She breathed, and Sam could not help but agree with her.

The roses of all different colors were still in bloom, red, pink, gold, white, and blue, their petals covered in delicate droplets of ice. Though some of the trees had shed their leaves for the season, there were other evergreen trees and shrubs that remained untouched. The lord’s chambers faced the east, so every morning Sam would awaken to the sunlight filtering in through the curtains as it rose, Gilly curled up in his arms in their four poster bed. It was a good life, better than he ever could’ve imagined.

The Tarlys frequently took their breakfasts in the courtyard, the breeze nipping at their cheeks but the sun shining pleasantly on them as they sipped their tea. Today Sam was writing out a letter to Jon, assuring his friend that they were all settling in well at Highgarden and he and Gilly were looking forward to visiting the newborn prince and princess soon. An invitation was extended for Jon and Daenerys to visit Highgarden after Gilly had the baby – considering how much Jon’s friendship had meant to Sam over the years, it would be nice for their children to be friends too.

Sam’s mother was currently walking with Little Sam through the briar maze, holding onto his little hand tightly as he toddled happily along beside her, meanwhile across the table Talla had been obsessively buttering her toast for twenty minutes. Finally, she sighed audibly and placed her knife down with a clatter. “Sam…can I ask you something?”

Sam looked up, and placed down his quill. His younger sister was staring at him nervously. “About what?”

Talla did not say anything for a moment. Since they’d come to Highgarden, he had been relieved to find that she was back to her usual happy self, but now she looked serious. “Now that I don’t have to marry Symun Fossoway anymore,” She began. “Are you…are you going to make me marry someone else?”

In truth, Sam had not given the matter much thought. Talla was surely a desirable marriage prospect, being a young and beautiful woman from an old family, with a claim to Horn Hill to boot. If Sam wanted to arrange an advantageous betrothal, he would have no shortage of suitors to choose from. “I won’t make you do anything,” He finally said. “If you want to marry, I’ll help you find someone, but if you don’t want to, that’s okay too. Is there someone in particular you’re thinking of?”

“There is someone…” Talla said shyly. “Someone who I love, and who loves me too. But we can never marry.”

Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Who?” Had Talla fallen in love with one of the servants at Horn Hill, perhaps? He could not think of anyone who it might be.

Talla blushed and whispered the name so low, Sam had to strain to hear it. “…Desmera Redwyne.”

“But Desmera Redwyne’s a – ” Talla raised an eyebrow at him and Sam closed his mouth as the realization hit. “ _Oh_. Oh, I see…” Desmera Redwyne was Lord Paxter’s only daughter, a pretty maid about Sam’s age with glossy dark ringlets and a face full of freckles, and had been a close companion of Talla’s since girlhood, though evidently the bond they shared went beyond simple companionship. Once Lord Randyll had wanted to arrange a betrothal between Sam and Lady Desmera, but after his disastrous attempted pageship, his father had scrapped the idea, deeming Sam too much of an embarrassment to marry Lord Redwyne's daughter. Now that he thought about it, it was strange that a beautiful young woman in her early twenties like Desmera did not have a husband yet. It seemed she did not want one. She had probably been relieved all those years ago when her father told her she was not to marry the Tarly heir after all. 

“Do you hate me now?” Talla asked him, and the look of sadness and shame on her face nearly broke his heart. She was genuinely terrified. 

“No!” Sam said without hesitation. “Talla, never. I could never hate you, no matter what.” He reached across the table to grab her hand. “I’m not going to lie to you. If people find out…they will judge you. Even with all the changes the king and queen have made, this is still a world where it’s difficult to be different. But if you really want this, then I’ll support you, no matter what anyone else says or thinks. You’re my sister Talla, and I love you. No matter who you are or what you do or who you’re with.”

Before he could even finish, Talla got up and raced around the table to embrace him. “I love you too, Sam. You’re a great brother. Thank you.”

Sam smiled, and hugged her back. “You’re welcome. And well…if you’d like to invite Lady Desmera to visit Highgarden sometime…she’d be more than welcome.”

Talla grinned. “I’ll write to her right away! May I be excused?” Sam nodded and Talla was so excited as she ran off that she accidentally collided with an unsuspecting Gilly on the stairs, who had just come down to breakfast.

“What is she so excited about?”

Sam watched Talla disappear up the staircase to her chambers, practically skipping. “Love.”

Gilly smiled. “Oh.” Before Sam could offer to pull a chair out for her, she caught him off guard by sitting down in his lap instead, wrapping her arms around his neck. She looked pretty as always this morning in a simple brown dress that flattered her rounded belly, her hair carefully curled, cheeks pink. Sam smiled and captured her lips in a kiss.

“How are you?”

“Good.” She swiped one of the grapes from his plate and popped it into her mouth. “I was thinking about names – for the baby.”

“Oh?” They had not had much of an opportunity to discuss this. “What were you thinking?” Considering how few baby names Gilly knew and how long it had taken her to decide on Little Sam’s name, this might prove difficult. Sam wondered what ideas for boy names she had conjured up. 

“Well,” Gilly sighed. “I was thinking, if it’s a boy…we could call him Aemon. ‘Aemon Tarly’. It sounds nice, don’t you think?”

Sam did not even have to nod and pretend to like it. It _was_ nice. Aemon wasn’t a name frequently seen outside of the Targaryen family, but Sam could not help but smile at the memory of the old maester. If they had to choose someone to name their new child after, there could be no better namesake than Maester Aemon. “I like it. But what if it’s a girl?”

Gilly pondered that for a moment. “If it’s a girl, you can pick the name. But it’s going to be a boy.”

“How can you be so sure? The maester says you’re carrying like it’s a girl.”

“It’s a boy,” Gilly insisted. “I should know better than the maester, I’m the one who’s carrying him. A mother knows things, Samwell Tarly.”

Sam was not going to argue with her further. He glanced back over to where his mother was playing with Little Sam, the boy laughing joyfully as she chased after him. Sam knew if his father was still alive, he would probably be horrified to find the son he always saw as inadequate was now ruling as Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, married to a Free Folk woman and raising children with her, while Talla was eschewing marriage in favor of a life with Desmera Redwyne. However, despite all that, Sam could not force himself to care. 

He turned back to Gilly and stared up at her, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I love you.”

Gilly smiled back at him. “I love you too.”

Yes, it was a good life.

* * *

**GENDRY**

“May I speak to you for a moment, little brother?”

Gendry looked up at the sound of Mya’s voice, finding his oldest sister lingering in the open library doorway. Truthfully he was grateful for the distraction – he’d spent the past hour agonizing over papers related to this year’s tax collection and he had no idea what he was doing. He would need to ask Arya or Davos. “Of course.” He said, gratefully pushing the papers aside.

Mya stepped inside and sat down at the edge of the large oaken desk that could easily sit five people. The library of Storm’s End was all wood – wooden desk, wooden floor, wooden shelves – and filled with old books with yellowed pages, smelling of parchment and dust. “So,” Mya began, shifting in an attempt to get comfortable. “Is Lord Selmy coming to the feast tonight?”

Gendry nodded. All of the lords and landed knights were coming to Storm’s End that evening to publicly swear their allegiance now that he and Arya had returned from their honeymoon. It was Davos’s idea, and so Gendry was going to have to shake a lot of hands and remember a lot of names. Arya was much better at meeting new people than he was. Granted Gendry thought Arya was better at many things. “Yes, he’ll be arriving with Lord Dondarrion in a few hours. Why do you ask?”

Mya paused. “The thing is…I think…I think he’s in love with me. And I think he’s going to ask you for permission to marry me.”

It took Gendry a moment to answer. Of course he knew that Mya and Arstan were friendly. They were close in age and shared many common interests. They rode horses and recommended each other books. Selmy had even offered to teach Mya how to shoot a bow and arrow, something she’d wanted to learn. Gendry had even suspected that there were potential romantic feelings there, considering the furtive glances and poorly repressed smiles he’d caught between them. He hadn’t been expecting _this_ though. “And…do you love him too?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see a problem.”

Mya fidgeted and looked down, picking at her nails nervously. “I love him,” She said. “But he won’t marry me. He won’t want to when he finds out the truth.”

Now Gendry was even more confused. “The truth about what?”

At his question, his sister looked away and Gendry swore he saw tears form in the corners of her blue eyes. “There was someone else – before Arstan. Mychel Redfort. I was in love with him and I…gave him my maidenhead. He told me he was going to marry me, only then his father made him wed Ysilla Royce, and now they’re married and have a baby. He gets his perfect life, meanwhile I’m going to die alone because Arstan won’t want me anymore if he finds out I’m a…” She hiccuped and wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “A ruined woman.”

Gendry had never seen Mya cry before, and he could not stand it. Even though Mya was older than him, as her brother he felt this instinct to protect her, and he could not stand the thought of someone hurting her or treating her poorly. “You are not ruined.”

“Please Gendry,” She said, a little snappily in truth. “This isn’t Flea Bottom. Selmy is a lord, and I’m a bastard and a whore. I already gave myself to someone else, what do I have left for him? I’m nothing.”

“You are not nothing.” Gendry said without hesitation. He got up from his desk to approach Mya, placing his hands squarely on her shoulders. “You’re a Baratheon. And more importantly, you’re my big sister. Mya, you’re kind and smart and funny. You have so much love to give a person. So what if you’re not a virgin? If a man is not expected to come to the marriage bed a maid, then why should it be expected of you? If Arstan Selmy truly loves you, it should not matter. And if he is angry, then forget him, because he doesn’t deserve you anyway.”

Mya said nothing for a moment, but then she surprised Gendry by throwing her arms about his neck as she pulled him in for a hug. She sniffled against his neck. “I do love you so, little brother.”

Gendry smiled, and hugged her back. “You too, big sister.”

Their sibling embrace did not last long when there was the sound of a commotion. The lone library window overlooked the courtyard below, and Gendry and Mya could hear someone yelling that a lone rider was approaching the gates. The siblings shared a wordless glance and then both sprang to their feet. Gendry’s first instinct was that perhaps Arstan Selmy was earlier than predicted, but if that were the case he would be with Dondarrion, not by himself.

Arya was already waiting in the courtyard, the wind whipping her hair around, Maester Jurne standing by her side. Gendry and Mya walked out to join them and Gendry squinted against the horizon, watching as a man on a black horse rode through the gates. “Is that…?”

When he looked at Arya, she was smirking. “Yes.” She said, before immediately crossing the courtyard to meet the arrival halfway.

The Hound disembarked his horse with a low grunt, pulling down the hood on his cloak. His burnt hand was now free from bandages and he had a bag slung over one of his shoulders. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“I told you so. I knew I’d wear you down.”

“If you fucking say it,” the Hound insisted. “I will get back on that fucking horse and not look back, you understand?”

But Arya only laughed and stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. “Welcome home.”

The Hound groaned, but then weakly lifted up an arm to hug her back. “I told you not to fucking say it…”

Everything seemed smoothed over by that evening, as the Hound begrudgingly accepted a seat at the high table and stuffed his face with food, while Mya quickly bored and climbed down from the dais to talk to Selmy. Gendry frequently glanced across the great hall and watched as his sister talked to her suitor, smiling and laughing. At one point she even dared to brush back his hair. As for Lord Arstan, he was always following Mya like a second shadow, smiling lovingly at her when she wasn’t looking.

Meanwhile Lord Morrigen returned to his seat after greeting Gendry and Arya, and Arya exhaled loudly as soon as he was gone. “Good gods, I think I’ve been called every single synonym for ‘beautiful’ tonight.”

“Well,” Gendry said. “You _are_ beautiful.” Her brown hair was tossed effortlessly over one shoulder, candlelight reflecting in her grey eyes.

Now those grey eyes were rolling at him in response. “There are more compliments you can give a woman than beautiful, you know. Like – ”

“Smart?” Gendry supplied. “Brave? Strong? Because those all fit you as well.”

“Oh shut up, you.”

Gendry chuckled and his eyes flicked to Arya’s plate, which remained largely untouched. She seemed to be pushing her food around rather than eating it. “Don’t like your boar?”

Arya wrinkled her nose in response. “I don’t like the smell.” Gendry opened his mouth – it smelled fine to him, and no one else seemed to have complaints about the contents of supper – but Arya quickly popped a carrot into her mouth, seemingly to appease him, and then changed the subject. “I think Steffon likes Elinda.”

Gendry spotted Ser Davos’s son across the room, squeezing himself into the seat next to Elinda Trant. Arya’s little handmaid smiled shyly at him. “Ser Davos says he fancies himself in love with her. They’re young, it may pass. Childhood infatuations often do.”

“Yes,” Arya said. “But sometimes they don’t.” The married couple glanced at each other and exchanged a smile.

The trays of lemon cakes Hot Pie had made that morning were brought out then, and Arya visibly perked up. He didn’t know she liked them so much. Ser Davos and Lady Marya excused themselves to get some fresh air and the Hound had stalked off to piss, leaving Gendry and Arya alone on the dais. Mya and Arstan Selmy also slipped from the room, and Gendry could assume what it was they were going to talk about. The musicians struck up, playing a merry jig.  

As for Bella, his other sister looked resplendent as always in a gold dress with stags embroidered on the corset top, her black hair curled and pulled back by a swath of lace, while a few loose tendrils hung about her face. She was currently dancing with Ser Brus Buckler, laughing as he spun her around. Bella did not have a shortage of admirers, her beauty, spirit and strong will having turned many a head since she came to Storm’s End. Ser Brus was desperate to marry her, and Gendry thought it looked like Lord Alesander Staedom and Ser Raymund Connigton might throw fists over who would get to dance with Lady Bella next. The older, thrice-widowed Ser Lomas Estermont had made it clear that he desired her – Bella granted him a dance or two out of pity, though Gendry knew the knight had no chance of winning her love. Bella liked to flirt harmlessly, and several of her suitors provided her entertainment: Lord Musgood made her laugh, she let Lord Wagstaff serenade her, and Lord Herston was the best dance partner. But of them all, it was Borros Dondarrion who was on the receiving end of the most of her smiles, and more than once Gendry caught Bella stealing glances at him when she was supposed to be talking with another man.

Arya leaned towards him. “Room for one more, don’t you think?”

He had not even heard her speak at first, too absorbed in watching Mya and Bella. “One more what?”

“Member of the family.”

Gendry looked back at his wife, finding Arya smirking at him. “You found another one of my father’s children?”

Arya shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

Gendry didn’t know if she was trying to tease him or what, because he didn’t know what she was getting at. “Arya, I don’t understand.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly. “Good gods, Gendry Baratheon! Do I really have to spell it out for you?” When Gendry only continued to stare confusedly at her, Arya grabbed his hand and pulled it towards her, placing it flat against her lower belly. “Now do you get what I’m trying to say?”

“Arya, I don’t – ” He cut himself off when the realization finally hit. “ _Arya_.” He whispered her name like a prayer, not daring to hope. “Are you – ?”

Arya was grinning now, and she looked quite pleased with herself. “I am.”

“Arya, if this is some kind of joke – ”

“I’m not joking! I would never tease you about this.”

Tears rushed to his eyes unbidden, and Gendry feared he might start crying right there in the middle of the great hall. He still could not quite believe it. “Arya – when? How? I thought you were – ”

“Well, I think you know _how_. Didn’t your mother ever teach you about how babies are made, Gendry Baratheon?” She trailed off, biting her lip as her smugness faded into uncertainty. “Are you upset with me? I’m happy about it, and I thought you would be too – ”

Gendry cut her off with a strong kiss. He used one hand to cup her face, the other remaining pressed over her belly. “I am happy. I’m more than happy, I’m…I’m _ecstatic_. This is the greatest news you could’ve possibly given me, m’lady.” He could see Arya exhale at his words. “How long have you known?”

“Only since yesterday morning. Maester Jurne says I’m about a turn of the moon, and the babe’s expected around the end of this year. Perhaps he or she will share a nameday with their father.”  

He could feel himself getting choked up. _A babe. A babe with Arya._ Perhaps a little girl with her fierce spirit and her wild grey eyes, though he would not mind a boy either…either way, he hoped their child was like her… “Oh Arya, I love you so much.”

Arya was beaming again and she leant in for another kiss. “You’re not crying, are you bull?”  

“No.” He insisted, but the way his breath hitched gave him away, and Arya laughed, her own eyes shining with tears. “Oh, so what if I am? You’re crying too.”

“I’m pregnant, I have an excuse.”

They both laughed and kissed again. Gendry did not know if he’d ever loved Arya more than he did now. “A turn of the moon, huh? That means – Braavos – ” He thought of that night when she came back from the House of Black and White, how hungrily she’d kissed him, how the moonlight cast an ethereal glow on the room. 

Arya nodded, her hand coming to rest over Gendry’s. “Seems we brought a souvenir back.”

He grinned. “And a hell of a souvenir it is.”

Arya smiled at him with eyes glistening with tears. “I love you, Gendry.”

“And I love you, m’lady. You have made me so unbelievably happy. You will never know how much.” Gendry looked around the great hall and – seeing all their guests seemed to be doing fine without them – took Arya’s hand. “Come on.”

Arya frowned as he stood and raised her up. “But I haven’t finished my lemon cake…”

Gendry effectively silenced her with a kiss. “I’ll have someone bring every lemon cake in this castle up to our room for you. Seven hells, I’ll tell Hot Pie to make you lemon cakes every day until you give birth if that’s what you want, even if I have to import fruit from Dorne. Right now, I think I need a reminder on how exactly babies are made…”

She grinned. “You’re the best husband I’ve ever had, bull.”

“I’m the _only_ husband you’ve ever had, m’lady.”

“Another reason why you’re my favorite.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss, long and hard, not caring who saw. He could feel Arya smiling against his lips as she kissed him back. Gendry pulled back and just stared at her for a moment, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, wondering what he had done to deserve her and this life. “Oh Arya…we’re going to be a family.”

Arya rolled her eyes and kissed him again. “You stupid bull. We already are.”

* * *

**TYRION**

“Welcome home, my lord.”

The servant held open the door and Tyrion stepped down out of the carriage, his boots meeting muddy ground covered in half a foot of melting snow. Though he could see his breath, the sky was grey and clear, not a cloud in sight. In the two moonturns he’d been gone to King’s Landing, he’d been expecting to come home to a snowstorm, though he’d seemingly missed it by a few days. “Hello, Gaven. Do you know where my wife is this morning?”

“In the great hall still breaking her fast, I believe, m’lord. We did not expect you until this evening.”

“Not a problem, Gaven. Thank you.” As Hand of the Crown, Tyrion had been gone for two months to see how Their Graces were getting along, and it had taken him three weeks to get from Winterfell to King’s Landing and the same to get home, even with infrequent stops. He was just glad to finally see Sansa.

He stopped in the doorway to the great hall and saw Sansa, sitting with her back to him. She was writing something down on a roll of parchment, her cup of still steaming tea next to her, while one of the servants cleared away some plates. “Do you know what the kitchens are making tonight, Bessie?” Sansa was asking. “I want dinner to be special for when Lord Tyrion gets home.”

“Perhaps suckling pig, m’lady? There’s an animal that hasn’t been butchered yet.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Bessie.” Bessie brushed past him on her way out and Tyrion tiptoed into the room, quietly walking up behind Sansa, but without looking back she dropped her quill. “I know you’re there, Tyrion.”

He sighed. “How did you hear me?”

Sansa smiled and Tyrion kissed her on the cheek, before slipping into the bench adjacent to hers, pouring himself some tea. “I wasn’t expecting you until tonight.”

“Well, I wanted to see my lovely wife as soon as possible.”

“How are my brother and goodsister?” Sansa asked. “And my little niece and nephew?”

“Their Graces are quite well – Daenerys recovered from her childbirth like a champion. And as for your niece and nephew, they seem perfectly healthy. There can be no question that their lungs are fully formed.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing them soon. There’s to be a council meeting before the end of the year, correct?”

“Correct. I think Her Grace wants to throw a ball to celebrate the first anniversary of the coronation, so perhaps we’ll schedule them back to back. Have one long trip to King’s Landing instead of two shorter ones.” He nodded at Sansa’s writing. “What are you up to?”

“Writing to Alys Karstark. She’s betrothed to Sigorn Thenn – I thought those two would hit it off. We’ll go to the wedding, won’t we?”

“Of course. Give her my well wishes.” He took a sip of tea. “You seem to have a natural talent for arranging marriages, my lady. I heard that at the coronation you introduced your cousin Sweetrobin to Princess Dorea, and he is quite besotted.”

“I figured she was the only girl in the Seven Kingdoms capable of keeping him in line. Robin needs a good woman.” Sansa said, dipping her quill in the inkwell, careful not to drip. “Gawen Glover and Andar Royce have both asked me for my help as well, though I don’t have any prospects in mind. Do you know of any young women looking for husbands?”

“Lord Jonos Bracken is interested in marrying off his youngest girls, I believe.” Bracken wasn’t the biggest fan of Lannisters after the Red Wedding, but his youngest daughter had been ordered to serve as a companion to Cersei when she was Queen Regent, and Tyrion thought he would be open to a betrothal if Sansa proposed it. The Riverlands bordered both the North and the Vale, so it made sense. “Bess is only a few years younger than Royce, and Alysanne about the same age as Glover. If you wrote to Bracken, I think he’d accept.”

Sansa nodded. “Perhaps I could invite Lady Bess and Lady Alysanne to visit us at Winterfell, and just happen to invite Lord Glover and Lord Royce that same week?”

“I always knew you were clever.”

Finished writing, Sansa sealed the letter up with wax. “Enough politics for one day. I missed my husband. Take a walk with me in the godswood, it’s a beautiful day.”

Tyrion drained the rest of his tea. “Sounds perfect. I’ve been looking forward to having you all to myself.” He had only been away for two months and he already missed her terribly. After everything they’d been through, he wanted to savor every moment he could with Sansa. He’d never thought he’d get to have a normal life with her – or a life with her at all – and even the most mundane moments were to be treasured.   

They passed the rest of the afternoon walking in the godswood, catching up on what had transpired in the past two months, and then dined privately. The suckling pig was quite good, with apples and rosemary. Afterwards they retired early to their chambers in front of the crackling fire, a maid bringing tea and pomegranate tarts before leaving them alone.

It was an ordinary evening, but there was something so comfortable and domestic about the scene that Tyrion could not help but look up from Maester Eon’s _Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings_ – an engrossing book, but not as engrossing as his wife – to stare at Sansa. She was curled up in her chair, engrossed in her own book, her nightgown falling off her shoulder just so. Her red hair fell in loose waves and a strand was draped across her exposed collarbone, half her face cast in a glow from the fire. When she caught Tyrion watching her, she smiled warmly at him, looking tired but also content - and beautiful beyond measure. It was a moment of such pure domestic tranquility that Tyrion marveled in it, took in every detail so he could hold it in his heart and remember it forever.

Impulsively, he set his book aside and crossed the room towards Sansa. “Bored of your book already?” She asked teasingly. Tyrion stopped before her and placed a hand gently on her knee, tracing circles with his thumb. Sansa smiled again and pushed her own book aside, leaning forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

“Marry me.” Tyrion said.

His beloved’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Marry me. Again. I know we’re technically already married, but the circumstances of our union were initially not ideal – ”

Sansa began to protest. “My love, I don’t care about that – ”

Tyrion cut her off gently, but firmly. “But I do. I love you, dearest, and you deserve a real wedding. Here, at Winterfell, with a beautiful dress and all of your friends and family near.” It was something he’d been thinking about since he went to King’s Landing, but he was sure now that he wanted to do it. He wanted Sansa to have all of her dreams. Their first marriage had taken place during a time of darkness, and this would be a new beginning. A way to put the past behind them and move on from their suffering to embrace the future. “If we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, I want to start off right. So what do you say?”

Sansa was silent for a long moment, then she cupped his face and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him slowly and tenderly. “Of course. I love you, Tyrion, and nothing would make me happier than to finally express that in front of everyone. You make me so happy.”  

His heart felt so full. “You make me even happier.”

“Now,” Sansa said. “I’m going to tell my maid to draw a bath. And I think there’s more than enough room in there for two, don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow suggestively.

After his travels, a bath sounded heavenly, and a bath with Sansa sounded even better. “Most definitely. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Sansa smiled and not for the first time, as he knelt there before her, Tyrion wondered what he had done in his life to deserve her love.

And all around them, the world was filled with possibility.  

* * *

**DAVOS**

“My lord?”

Davos knocked lightly on the door to Lord Baratheon’s solar before entering and he heard the sounds of muffled whispers and quick shuffling. When he tentatively stepped into the room, Gendry was rising from his seat and Arya moved to the other side of the table, where she had clearly not been a moment before. She smiled brightly, while Gendry still tried to get his bearings. “Good morning, Ser Davos.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all.”

Davos suspected that wasn’t entirely the truth, but he came into the room regardless. “I just wanted to let you both know that Marya, the boys and I will be leaving for Treasure Trove this afternoon.”

“So soon?” Gendry asked.

“I’ll only be gone for a few months. I just need to get some affairs in order, and I think it’s best that Stannis and Steffon get settled into their new home. They need stability, after everything.” The newly constructed castle might’ve been his home, but Davos himself had not even seen it since its completion. As much as he liked being at Storm’s End with Gendry and Lady Arya, he needed some time with his family away from everyone else, to recuperate and mourn their mutual loss. Devan’s death was still fresh, and he wanted to make sure Stannis and Steffon were well cared for, to spend quality time with them and Marya. They were the only blood he had left in this world now.

The married couple nodded in understanding. “Well, you are welcome here anytime, Ser Davos.” Gendry assured him. “You know Arya and I both care for you.”

“Thank you, m’lord, m’lady. I won’t forget that.” He had come to care for the young couple as well, and he would be back in a few months. They were his liege, and Davos wanted the Baratheons to still be a part of his life, even now that the wars were over.    

The moment was disturbed when the door burst open, ricocheting off the wall, and Sandor Clegane stalked in unannounced. “Do you know what time is it?” He said to Arya, not bothering with pleasantries.

“I don’t know, ten o’clock?”

“Almost eleven,” the Hound informed her. “You said you wanted me to go riding with you at ten. I don’t have all day you know. You become some fancy southron lady and you think you can keep me waiting now, is that it?”

Arya frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “The morning got away from me, that’s all. Give me a moment to get my jacket and we’ll go. I hope you’ll be better company than this – if you’re going to bitch the whole time, I swear I’ll push you out of the saddle and leave you there.”  

“Gods, why so sensitive? You’re even more of a bitch than usual.”

Arya scowled, her hands on her hips, but at the same time Gendry glanced at her, looking unsure. “Should we tell them?”

Davos frowned. “Tell us what?”

Ignoring him, Arya shrugged at her husband. “If you want.”

“Let’s tell them.”

“All right then.”

“Tell us what?” the Hound repeated Davos’s words, though they sounded much more irritated coming out of his mouth.

Still, the couple ignored them. “Should I tell them?” Gendry asked. “Or do you want to?”

“Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Oh seven hells!” the Hound cried. “Someone just say it already! I don’t have all day!”

Arya and Gendry only exchanged a conspiratorial grin and then Arya lowered a hand over her midriff, watching for them to get her meaning. It did not take Davos long. “ _Oh_.” He breathed. “What splendid news! Congratulations.” He could not say he was entirely surprised, given how deeply in love the couple were. This was a logical next step in their relationship.

Arya and Gendry were both beaming, but abruptly the Hound drew his sword and crossed the room in three steps to grab Gendry by the throat and shove him against the wall. “You fucking bastard son of a whore! Just had to stick your cock in her, huh?”

“Sandor!” Immediately, Arya got between them and shoved the Hound out of the way with all her strength, allowing Gendry to breathe again as the Hound dropped his hand. “You bastard! Can’t you just be happy for me? He’s my husband, it’s not like he forced himself on me. You think I’d do anything I didn’t want to do?”

The Hound grunted in frustration, but regardless moved back and put his sword away. Gendry visibly exhaled in relief. “Did you have to pick such a whinger to impregnate you? You’re already annoying enough on your own, imagine how annoying that kid is going to be.”

Arya scowled. “If you ever call my baby annoying again, Sandor Clegane, I will gut you and display your severed head on Storm’s End’s walls. Understand? Pregnant or not, I am still fully capable of killing you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” the Hound glanced at them both. “Well, congratulations I guess. Now, if you’re not in the courtyard in ten minutes, I’m leaving without you.” He grumbled, before stalking out of the room.

For a moment none of them said anything – Gendry rubbing his throat where the Hound had grabbed him, Davos standing there in shock – until Arya sighed and placed a hand over her heart. “I think he’s really happy for us.”

“Yeah,” Gendry muttered. “Happy…”

Davos congratulated the couple again, Arya leaving to join the Hound for their promised horseback ride, and then Davos went out to meet Marya and the boys. Stannis was teasing Steffon as they saddled their horses. “Did you say goodbye to Elinda?” He asked his younger brother with a cheeky grin, making Steffon’s face turn red. “Did you give her a kiss to remember you by?”

“Don’t talk about Elinda!” Steffon said snappily. It was clear that Steffon had developed a special friendship with Arya’s little handmaiden. Steffon was only twelve, so friendship was all it was for now, but based off how enamored Steffon seemed to be with the Trant girl, Davos would not be surprised if deeper feelings developed in the future.

“That’s enough,” Marya told them both. “Stannis, don’t provoke your brother, and Steffon, watch your tone.” Both of the boys closed their mouths and Marya looked at Davos, frozen in the doorway. “Ready to go?”

Davos paused for a moment, watching as Stannis and Steffon climbed on their horses, and thinking of the brothers that should’ve been there with them: Dale. Allard. Matthos. Maric. Devan. As happy as he was for them, Lord and Lady Baratheon’s news had made Davos think about the children he had lost. He hoped that was something Gendry and Arya would never have to experience – he would not wish that suffering upon his worst enemy. There was no greater pain in the known world than that of losing your child. As a parent you wanted to protect them, with your life if need be.

Finally, he nodded. “Ready.”

After a few hours of riding, Treasure Trove appeared in the distance. From the top of a hill, Davos looked down upon the stout castle with a single bailey and an outer wall. It was a small but stout fortification made of dark stone, and he could hear the sound of waves crashing in the distance. “Well,” Marya said. “Welcome home.”

As soon as they arrived, the steward immediately informed Davos that his guest had already arrived. Before he could even take his cloak off he was ushered to the great hall, the door shut behind him.   

The great hall was a dark room with wooden walls and a high ceiling, animal pelts hanging on the walls, candles in the dark chandeliers. He found her sitting in a large chair in front of the mantle, her back to him as she sat in front of the roaring fire. “You must be Wylla.”

The girl turned around. She was a teenage girl with straight brown hair framing her plump face, and her eyes were red from crying. There was something sweet about her face, with her button nose and dusting of freckles, and Davos imagined she must be pretty when she smiled. He could understand how she stole Devan’s heart.

Wylla wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Ser Davos. I mean…Lord Davos? I’m sorry, I probably look a fool…”

Davos supposed he was “Lord Seaworth” now, but that still sounded so foreign to him. No one ever called him that. “You can just call me Davos. No ‘ser’ or ‘lord’ necessary.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “And you do not look a fool.”

Wylla dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. “I spent a lot of time imagining what it would be like to meet you, you know? Devan talked so much about how he admired his father. I thought that perhaps after the wars he’d ask me to marry him, and I’d be meeting his family as his intended. It was stupid, I know…”

“It wasn’t stupid.” Davos knelt down before her, tentatively patting her knee. “Devan loved you very much, you know. He told me about you.”

“He did?”

He nodded. “He said that you were the love of his life. You were the girl that he’d…well, that he’d been waiting his whole life for. I think having you even for such a short time made him happier than anything else.”

“Did he…?” Wylla paused. “Did he suffer? In the end?”

Davos could still remember what it had looked like when the crossbow bolt landed in Devan’s chest, how the blood had bloomed across his shirt, as clearly as if it were happening all over again. It was impossible for him to know what pain Devan was in at the end of his life, or what his last thoughts were before he collapsed dead. “It was quick.” Davos told Wylla. That was the truth at least.

The girl nodded. Her eyes were less red now, and Davos could see that their true color was green. Not emerald green, more like…seaweed green. Like the oceans off Storm’s End after wind and rain. “I loved him too. I’ll spend the rest of my life missing him.”

“I know. Me too.” For several moments the two of them sat in silence, staring into the fire, both surely thinking of Devan. “I know nothing can bring Devan back,” Davos finally said. “But I asked you to come here because you are the only other person in this world who knew Devan like his mother and I did. He is gone, but that doesn’t mean we can’t know each other. I hope you’ll stay at Treasure Trove a little while longer.”

Tentatively, Wylla smiled through her teary expression. “I’d like that. And I think Devan would’ve liked that too.”

A little while later Wylla was shown to a room and Davos went looking for Marya. He found her outside, standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean below. Her hair was not pulled back in a bun as usual, but loose and blowing in the wind, and Davos was suddenly reminded of the teenage carpenter’s daughter he had fallen in love with many years ago.

Marya turned around and shot her kindly smile at him. “How did it go with Wylla?”

“Quite well. She’s a sweet girl.”

“She is.”

Davos stood next to her and looked down at the sea. The water was dark blue and beating against the rocks below, the beach covered in shells. Perhaps he’d suggest to Steffon that they take a walk later and collect some. They could make some seashell bracelets for Marya and Wylla – maybe one for Elinda too. 

“So,” Marya said. “Is Lady Baratheon pregnant?”

Davos looked at her. “How did you know that?”

“You forget that I carried seven children, Davos. I know the signs. She has the pregnant woman glow about her.”

Davos chuckled. “I suppose she does. It will be nice to have a child running about the halls of Storm’s End, won’t it?” There hadn’t been a baby born into the Baratheon family since sweet Shireen nearly nineteen years ago. She would’ve been Lady Arya’s age if she were still alive. Perhaps she would’ve been married and expecting a child by now too. She would’ve made a good mother, with her kind and loving disposition.

He must’ve had a faraway look in his eyes at the thought of Shireen, because suddenly Marya looked sad. “Do you ever truly get over it?” She asked. “The pain of losing those you love?”

As much as Davos wanted to tell her yes, he knew that was not true. He thought about Devan and Shireen every day of his life. Trauma was something that never really went away. He knew that Lord Baratheon still sometimes had nightmares about the war, that Lady Arya’s hands would clench the edges of the table when someone said something that triggered a memory. He knew there were certain things that the queen did not like to talk about, and even King Jon would sometimes wake up in a cold sweat from dreams about the Night King and the thousands of bodies that littered the battlefield outside of Winterfell. They had all suffered, each and every one of them, more than any person should ever have to suffer.

“No, but over time, you learn to live with it. We all have to wage a constant battle against our demons. You just have to trust you have the strength to survive it.” Davos looked at Marya. As horrible and heart wrenching the grief he had suffered was, with this woman he loved by his side, he did not doubt that he could defeat those demons every time. His losses would always hurt, but Marya was here. He still had two sons. And he had friends he loved as much as any family. Because he had felt loss, he could find such supreme joy in the simplest moments, appreciate everything more fully, love everything more fiercely. His family was something worth fighting for indeed. He took Marya’s hand. “Come now – let’s go home.”

* * *

**BRIENNE**

“My lady, Lord Lannister’s carriage is here.”

She was in the stables, brushing through the mane of a horse when a squire came to bring her the news. Immediately, Brienne passed the brush off to the master of horse, unable to suppress the smile that sprang to her face. “I’ll be right there.”

It was a clear, cool day on Tarth, with only a few scattered clouds in the sky and a light breeze. In the four months since she’d returned after the war, Brienne had been trying to keep busy: brushing horses, shining swords, writing letters, anything to keep her mind occupied. She just saw Jaime at King’s Landing, but after all the time they spent together during the war, four months away from him felt like a lifetime.

When she walked out to the courtyard, one of the Unsullied guards opened the carriage doors and Jaime stepped out, Barristan in his arms. When his eyes met hers, he smiled, and Brienne raced across the courtyard towards him. “Jaime.” She practically launched herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck, and Jaime greeted her with a kiss.

“I missed you too, wench.”

Brienne grinned and kissed him again. She wasn’t exactly sure as to the status of their relationship – the last time they saw each other, they’d admitted they loved each other – but right now she was just glad to see that his feelings were the same as they were in King’s Landing. She turned her attention to the child in Jaime’s arms, smiling at little Barristan. “And look at you, Barristan. You’ve gotten so big…”   

Jaime passed the baby off to her and Brienne held him. She kissed the top of Barristan’s blonde head and he giggled happily, tugging on her tunic with his chubby fingers. “I told him we were going to visit Lady Brienne,” Jaime said. “And he was very glad to hear of it.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him since King’s Landing was liberated. I didn’t expect him to remember me…”

“Well, evidently you made quite an impression.”

Brienne blushed, while in her arms the baby continued to smile and babble. “Good – because I quite like him too.”

“Ahh, Lord Jaime!” Brienne’s father called as he stepped out of the castle, Lord Selwyn crossing the courtyard to meet them. “Wonderful to see you again. I trust your journey was well?”

“Very well, Lord Selwyn, thank you. We hit some rain in the Riverlands, but it was uneventful otherwise.”

“I am glad to hear it.” The Evenstar replied. “Brienne and I would love for you to dine with us tonight – we have some fine, fat trout that my men caught the other day, and I’ve ordered the cooks to fry them up with lemon and garlic. You don’t mind fish, do you?”

“I like it perfectly well, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Lord Selwyn turned his attention to his daughter, a glimmer in his sapphire eyes. “Brienne, dearest, why don’t you take Lord Lannister for a walk down to the shore? The seas have been so calm since the war ended, and it’s not usually like this in winter, but perhaps the weather has not come in full force yet.”

“Jaime will be here with us for a fortnight.” Brienne replied. “And I’m certain he’s tired after his long journey. Perhaps I could show him and his party to their rooms – ”

“Actually,” Jaime cut in suddenly. “A walk would be lovely. I’ve been cooped up in that carriage for half a day.”

“Oh.” Brienne sighed. “Well, in that case – ” She was going to hand Barristan off to his wet nurse, but her father intercepted and scooped the boy into his arms.

“Young Barristan and I will keep each other company while you’re gone.” Lord Selwyn said with a smile. He tossed Barristan playfully into the air and the infant laughed enthusiastically when Lord Selwyn caught him. “Just be back before it gets too dark, all right?” He exchanged a look with Jaime which Brienne could only describe as ‘conspiratorial’.

Her father carried Barristan back inside the castle and Brienne turned to lead Jaime down towards the water, but she noticed that his Unsullied guards were not following them. “Didn’t Queen Daenerys order them to go with you wherever you went?”

“Oh, that.” Jaime sighed. “Well, when I wrote to her about the circumstances of my visit, she agreed that a little privacy was deserved.” He surprised Brienne by taking her hand. “Shall we?”

Brienne knew she probably smelled like horse, and Jaime was probably exhausted from his journey, but that didn’t seem to matter as they walked down to the beach hand-in-hand, talking of normal things. “How has it been at Casterly Rock?”

“Quiet,” Jaime answered. “But I suppose that is better than the alternative. Barristan is happy there, and he likes his nurse well enough, and that’s all that really matters.”

“He’s already grown so much in four months. I was surprised to see that he babbles so much – he’s a jolly little fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He laughs in his sleep sometimes – when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll sit by his crib and wonder what he’s dreaming of. I hope it will always just be good things.” Jaime smiled wistfully, and for a long moment said nothing. Brienne could tell simply from the way that Jaime spoke about Barristan how much he loved the boy, but she wasn’t surprised – she knew Jaime would make a good father. “How has it been in the Stormlands?”

“Good for the most part. The Trants have kept quiet since they lost their lordship, and Lord Wylde still bemoans having a legitimized bastard as his lord, but no one seems to listen to him. I was just writing to Ser Davos the other day, asking him how his family is settling into their new keep, and he says they’re happy there. I think Father wants me to go with him to Storm’s End soon – Arya is newly with child and he wants to give our congratulations in person, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t think she wants everyone to know yet.” Brienne had only heard because Arya had written Sansa, and Sansa was so excited that she’d confessed it all to Brienne in their latest correspondence. She’d sworn Brienne to secrecy, but Jaime would not break their confidence.

“I’ll act surprised the next time I run into Lord and Lady Baratheon at court.” He replied. “I think there will be marriages and children all over the Seven Kingdoms soon – in his last letter Tyrion told me he’s betting Sansa will start begging for a baby by this time next year, and King Jon and Queen Daenerys only just had their little prince and princess a few months back. Marriage and birth rates are always higher the first few years after a war. People are just so happy to be alive, they start going at it like rabbits.”

Brienne laughed. “Yes, I suppose they do.” After what they’d been through they all deserved something good in their lives. Something to remind them that this world wasn’t all death and darkness and destruction, that it could be kind. 

They reached the crest of a dune and left their boots at the top before walking down towards the sea. “It’s been a little cold,” Brienne said. “But the weather’s been quite odd – winter’s only just started and already the fish are biting again, and the sun comes out most days. Perhaps this winter won’t be as bad as the maesters thought.”

“The maesters have been wrong before, and I’m sure they’ll be wrong many times still.”

They paused along the shoreline but as Jaime stared out at the ocean, Brienne stared at him. She could tell his mind was someplace else. “You and my father are planning something.” She said. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

 “ _Jaime_.”

With a sigh he turned to look at her, his green eyes turning serious. “You’re right, wench. I’m afraid…well, I’m afraid I didn’t come to Tarth just to see the water. I had ulterior motives. I’m sorry, I had a speech prepared, this isn’t how I wanted to ask…”

He was holding her hand, running his thumb across her palm, and Brienne suddenly felt confused. “What are you talking about? Ask what?”

Jaime took a deep breath. “I came here…I came here to ask you to marry me, Brienne.”

Immediately it was like all the breath had left her lungs and Brienne could only stare at him, mouth agape. “What?”

“I’ve sought the king and queen’s permission, and I asked your father for his blessing months ago, back before we parted in King’s Landing.”

Brienne’s head was spinning. These past four months, she had never allowed herself to consider this possibility, and in truth perhaps that was foolish of her…but as much as she’d fantasied about a life with Jaime Lannister, she never thought they’d get the chance to make that fantasy a reality. First there was the war ahead of them, and then after they’d parted at King’s Landing she’d wondered if time apart would cause him to forget about her. She had never expected him to make this proposal, and yet now here they were. “You’ve really wanted to marry me that long?”

Jaime smiled at her. “Yes wench, I daresay I’ve wanted to marry you for even longer than that. Perhaps since the first day I saw you again at Winterfell.”

“Jaime…” Tears rushed to her eyes and though Brienne suddenly felt foolish, she could not help it. After all these years, she’d given up hope that this moment would ever come. After all the losses, all the heartbreaks, she’d never expected anyone would want to marry her. And she had certainly never expected to be asked this question by a man she loved, a man she once thought could never love her back…

“Let me finish.” Jaime cut in gently. “I love you, Brienne. I have loved you for so long, I cannot even remember when it began. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but you make me happier than I ever thought I could be. All I need is you and Barristan. So marry me, wench. Marry me and be my wife, and let me be your husband.”

The first tear fell down her cheek. “Oh _Jaime_. I…I don’t know what to say…”

“I was hoping you’d say yes.”

Brienne smiled, and then she was laughing. “Yes! Yes, yes, of course…” Jaime kissed her and she embraced him, her tears turning into laughter as they held each other. “I love you.”

“And I love you, wench. Thank you for saying yes.”

“As if there was any other answer…” Her betrothed pulled back to look at her, and Brienne saw a slow smile cross Jaime’s face. “What was that for?”

“Oh,” He said. “I was just thinking. You really should wear blue to our wedding. I’ve always liked you in blue. It goes wonderfully with your eyes…”

She laughed again and then she was kissing him desperately, over and over, never wanting to stop. _But there’s no rush._ She had to remind herself. She was going to be able to kiss him for the rest of their lives.

In these past few years they had experienced suffering beyond measure, but even after so much darkness, life could still be beautiful. It had finally given her her something good.  

* * *

**JON**

“Another round?”

Jon drank the last sip of his ale and placed the cup down on the table. “Not tonight. I’ve barely seen Daenerys all day, I should go up to bed.”

Dolorous Edd nodded and the two friends got up. “Spar with me tomorrow?”

“Of course. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

After parting with Edd, Jon left the great hall and headed upstairs to the royal apartments. Ser Jorah was on duty outside of their bedchamber tonight and nodded at him in greeting. “Ser Jorah, how are you this evening?”

“Can’t complain, Your Grace. Her Grace and Lady Missandei are already inside. Have a good night, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Mormont. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Inside the spacious king’s bedchamber, fires were roaring in the twin hearths – Ghost was sprawled out in front of one, sound asleep – and the Queen of Westeros and Mistress of Laws were sitting on the large canopy bed, giggling about something and each holding a baby. “The prince is quite the skilled sleeper, Your Grace.”

Jon paused and watched silently as Daenerys smiled, switching the baby in her arms from one breast to the other. After the twins were born she’d turned the wet nurse away, insistent that no one would feed her children except for her. “For such a young child, he has his father’s brooding face. Poor thing.”

“I heard that.”

The two women turned when Jon spoke and they both laughed again. “I was only teasing, my love.” Daenerys said. “You know I think you’re handsome even when you’re brooding.”

Missandei got up from the bed, bouncing the baby in her arms, and walked towards Jon. “It’s getting late, I’ll leave you both. Is there anything I can get for you before I go?”  

“No Missandei, but thank you.” Missandei passed the baby off to him and Jon took his son into his arms gratefully. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Your Graces.”

“Goodnight, Missandei.” Now that the baby was finished nursing, Daenerys lifted their daughter into a shoulder, gently rubbing her tiny back as Missandei quietly left the room, the door shutting softly behind her. “Rhaella never wants to sleep when she’s supposed to. She’ll be the death of me.”

Jon smiled, adjusting his hold on his son. “Well, she knows that she’s the future queen. She wants to give orders, not take them.” Thirty minutes older than her brother, the Princess of Dragonstone had been named for Daenerys’s mother, who died giving her birth. Though adorable and innocent-looking with her little silver curls and chubby pink cheeks, she was stubborn and could never be made to sleep or eat if she did not want to. She also loved attention, content to be held by Jon or Dany for hours at a time – it was Rhaella’s world, and they were all just living in it. She was a spitfire, especially compared to her quiet and serious brother.

Robb stirred and opened his indigo eyes only for a moment, but promptly went back to sleep after Jon pressed a feather light kiss to the top of his head. Initially Daenerys had not been keen on the idea to name their son for Jon’s biological cousin and adoptive brother, but when he’d been born, she’d been unable to deny there was no better name for him than Robb. It just seemed to suit him – though he had his mother’s coloring, just like Rhaella did, he had a strong Stark face and for such a young child, he already had a serious countenance. Jon’s heart filled with love for his son all over again, remembering what it had been like when he held him for the first time. Looking into his children’s eyes – the same shade that Jon’s father’s had supposedly been, those eyes that had made Lyanna Stark fall for him – he felt a love he had never thought imaginable. It was so powerful, and sometimes there was something about it that made Jon feel melancholic too, knowing that this was how his mother had felt about him and they’d been ripped apart so soon. How it must’ve hurt her to know she’d never see her son grow up, never see his first steps or hear his first words, never know what kind of man he’d become. He understood her suffering better now.

Daenerys got up from the bed and placed Rhaella down in one of the cradles situated by their bed. Even though the twins had a nursery down the hall, Dany and Jon liked to keep the children in their bedchamber with them, so that they could get to them at a moment’s notice if need be. Sometimes Jon would even wake up in the middle of the night to find that Daenerys was just sitting there staring at them. Jon would never forget what she said the first time he caught her doing that. “I had a nightmare they were gone. I needed to look at them, just to make sure…” She’d shaken her head. “I won’t go through that again.” Jon knew that Daenerys had once thought she’d never be a mother to a living child. As happy as she was now, the pain of losing Rhaego would never truly leave her. Jon himself had never imagined holding a child of his own either, but now that he had he couldn’t stand the thought of losing them. He would sometimes peer into the twins’ cribs just to make sure they were still breathing – he and Daenerys had both had the people they loved taken away from them too much, and they sometimes felt that they would lose it all. They did not know what to do with so much happiness.  

Down in her crib, Rhaella’s dark purple eyes were rapidly blinking as she tried – and failed – to fight off sleep. Eventually her tiny thumb went into her mouth, letting Jon know she’d succumbed to slumber. Robb was easier, not stirring as Jon placed him in the crib besides his sister’s and tucked the blanket around him. Now began their nightly ritual.

Daenerys sat down on the floor, one hand rocking each cradle, while Jon fetched the large wicker basket that remained by one of the hearths. Inside were Drogon’s three dragon eggs, nestled among some blankets, their scales warm to the touch. The scarlet and black was Rhaella’s. “The Targaryen colors for a Targaryen queen.” Daenerys had said. The silver was Robb’s. When the eggs were placed in their cradles, Rhaella’s arm instinctively reached out to grab her egg, pulling it as close to her as physically possible. She slept with her cheek pressed up against the scales, sometimes rubbing her face against it. While Robb did not grab his egg as strongly as Rhaella grabbed hers, he slept with his face turned towards it, never moving. It was an old tradition for Targaryen babes to sleep with dragon eggs in their cradles, and someday hopefully Rhaella and Robb’s eggs would hatch.

As for the solid white egg, it remained in the basket. The white surface was so clear that Jon could see his own face reflected in it. “What do you suppose we’ll do with this one?” He found himself asking Daenerys. It was too beautiful to go to waste.

His wife leaned over to kiss his cheek, and when Jon looked at her she was smiling at him. “We’re still young. There could be a third child yet to come.” Jon smiled too at that.

They sat there staring at their sleeping children for a few moments longer before Jon got up, walking towards the window. Daenerys remained on the floor, humming softly as she kissed the twins goodnight. Jon stared outside at the setting sun, barely visible behind the clouds, and noticed that tiny snowflakes were beginning to fall. This snow was nothing compared to the North, where it even snowed in summer, but people in King’s Landing never knew what to do when the cold weather came. They would stand in the streets staring up at the sky like they’d never seen snow before, and many of them most likely hadn’t. It would only get worse.

He was still looking out the window when Dany walked up behind him, her lips pressing a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. Jon reached his arms back to hold her. “Winter is here.”  

Daenerys laughed against his skin. “Spoken like a true Stark. You were truly raised by wolves.” She came around to stand by his side and Jon wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to kiss the top of her head. He loved her silver hair, the hair their children had inherited. _But with your curls_ , Daenerys would always correct. “Spring will come.” She said now. “Soon.”

Jon looked down at her. Daenerys looked so sure of herself. “How can you know? The maesters are predicting ten more years of winter.” The winters in Westeros were relentless and brutal, something neither Jon nor Daenerys had experienced before. Life now was too good. There had to be hardships ahead.

“Well, the maesters are wrong about many things.” Dany laughed. “I _know_ spring is coming. I dreamt it, remember?”

He did. Back at Winterfell, after she’d been injured in the battle, Daenerys told him about the dream she’d had while she was unconscious. Jon had not seen it for himself, but Dany had described it in such great detail, he could picture it in his mind: the dream of the two of them playing with their five-year-old children in King’s Landing in springtime. Dany had seen Rhaella and Robb before they’d even been born, before they’d even known they were having twins. As impossible as it seemed, maybe she was right. Maybe it would come true. “Well, if I learned one thing from you Daenerys Stormborn, it’s that anything is possible.”

Their eyes met at the same time and Daenerys smiled sweetly up at him. When she was looking at him like that, how could he not have hope? “No matter what comes next,” She said. “We’ll survive it. We always do.”

Of that, Jon had no doubt.


End file.
